


being worshipped is a breeze

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Road to El Dorado Fusion, M/M, i can't believe that was already a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-09 16:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: "Count your blessings, keep them sweet is my advice"--A season 2 Road to El Dorado AU where Flint and Silver say "fuck it" to the Warship, wander through the wilderness, and get mistaken for Gods.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated E for later, sorry :|
> 
> title from "it's tough to be a god" by sir elton
> 
> You don't really have to be familiar with the movie to read. My beta reader has never seen the movie but she still seems to like this fic, so

Flint stands knee-deep in the water, sharp, broken shells digging into his bare feet, but his eyes are just on the warship on the horizon. It had looked closer when he’d been back on the shore with Dufresne and the others, somehow. With the shallow tides rocking into him, he feels like he has about as much strength to swim straight back to Nassau as he does to that ship. Which is to say, none at all.

He walks until the sandbar ends, and he raises his arms to dive all the way in, because even though he needs this swim like he needs another hole in his head, what the fuck _else_ is he gonna do? But then pain shudders through his shoulder like a ricochet, and he stumbles a little, sliding on the jagged sand.

“Fuck,” he says, holding his bullet wound. Fucking Dufresne. He checks the bandage that was hastily slapped on while he was unconscious. He hadn’t bothered to secure it more, thinking it’d be lost in the swim either way, but that might have been a mistake. The pressure probably would have helped with the pain.

“Flint.” There’s a hand grazing his elbow, a gesture not properly aborted.

He’s only a little surprised Silver chose to follow him. It’s not like Silver had many other options, but seeing him here to support Flint, for lack of a better word, only reminds Flint of all the _other_ times Silver has supported him, and he still doesn’t fully understand _why._

He’s expecting Silver to continue arguing against his plan, or ask what made him curse, but Silver just points to the horizon and says, “Look.”

Flint looks. It takes him a moment to see, the glare of the sun rippling on the water, and he doesn’t have a spy glass anymore. But eventually, he sees the longboat of Spanish soldiers heading from the shore to the warship, where more Spanish soldiers wait on deck for them.

“Fuck,” Flint says again. Paranoia of their current predicament must be making them speed up their usual guard changes. There’s no real telling now when people might be boarding  that ship.

There is a pause. The waves lap at their knees. The sun continues to blind.

“Fuck it,” says Flint, turning away from the warship. He heads back up to the beach.

“Um.” He hears Silver splashing after him. “Fuck what?”

“This.” Flint sits down on the same rock as before. He carefully inspects the soles of his feet for cuts, but they’re just pink and cold. He brushes the dry sand off.“We’ll go with your plan.”

Silver stands there, dripping and sandy. The idiot hadn’t even taken off his shoes before following him into the water. “What plan?” he asks, sounding a little hysterical again. “My plan was to follow your plan!”

“We’re following _your_ plan, that you _thought_ was my plan,” Flint says, pulling his boots back on. “So that when it fails and we inevitably die, it’ll be just as much your fault as it is mine.”

Helpless of anything else to do, Silver picks up his blue jacket. It’s as sandy as the rest of him, it sprinkling down as he twists it anxiously in his hands. “Then, why the _fuck_ \--”

“Because that way is certain death,” Flint says, gesturing with his head towards the warship. “And _that_ way,” he points behind him, to where the rest of their shitting crew were hiding, “is also certain death. _Your_ way is only probable death.”

He finally gets his boots back on. He approaches Silver, who is still standing there limply, slowly sinking into the sand. “Unless you have any other suggestions?” Flint’s not expecting one, but he’d be lying if he said he isn’t just slightly hoping for one.

Silver squints at Flint, at the dunes and rocks where the rest of the crew waited, at the fucking overrun warship idling on the water. Then he looks North. “So,” he says. “To St. Augustine, is it?”

“Fuck that,” Flint says, walking away. Like Hell would he ever go to St. Augustine with Silver.

 

* * *

 

They walk most of the day. Flint -- kind of -- knows where he’s going. Navigating on land is different than at sea, and he didn’t want to stick too close to the shoreline. That would be too easy to track, if he thought anyone gave enough of a damn to follow them.

He figures they’re probably heading North. He isn’t sure at all if that’s the direction they even _want_ to move in, but at this point, it really didn’t matter. His assuredness that this might end not in their deaths has all but dried up. Whatever waits for them beneath the brush and wild grass will unlikely be anything good.

He briefly spares a thought towards Miranda, but refuses to dwell on her. Doubtful any of his fucking men would think to seek her out, if they made it back at all. She would always wonder, always be looking over one shoulder for him, but he knows she’d find a way to move on. Her strength had no limit, and she’d carry Flint in her heart always, beside Thomas. But he doesn’t doubt, in the long run, she’ll be better off without him. Happier, less pained all the time.

“We both speak Spanish well enough,” Silver is saying. “So, what if -- we arrive at the next Spanish port, pretend to be shipwrecked fisherman who got lost in the storm, and appeal to their Christian duty for safe harbor.”

“You’re assuming,” Flint says, hacking away at an obstructing tangle of vines with their only knife, “that we can make it to any Spanish port.”

Silver is silent behind him. He’s had no problem keeping up with Flint, as they’ve had to move swiftly through the land. If anything, Flint is the one struggling to set the pace. His shoulder fucking _hurts_ , and the distraction of a battle was one thing. The distraction of _walking_ doesn’t quite compare.

But he isn’t about to just hand Silver the knife and let him lead.

“Okay,” Silver says finally. “We double back around to the Spanish soldiers on the beach. We wait a little while, then pretend to be shipwrecked fisherman who got lost in the storm, and appeal to their Christian duty for safe harbor.”

That has some merit, maybe. Except.

“They’re too suspicious right now,” Flint says. “Especially once they’ve eventually found and butchered out mutinous fucking crew.”

“You know, you don’t _have_ to smile so widely when you say that.”

“Yes. I do.”

Flint’s whole side aches. There are no paths or trails here, the terrain just thick brush and high grass and vines like ship ropes, crossing in every direction, and he’s been trying to clear a way for them for hours now with a fucking dagger and a bullet wound.

“And even if they haven’t found them,” Flint adds, “they’re still too suspicious with all that gold lying around. They’d just as soon kill us and not have to worry about it.”

He’s suddenly stopped by a bush too thick to cut through, and Silver collides with his back. Fresh pain rushes through his body so quickly he can’t stop the gasp escaping. He grips the knife harder so it doesn’t drop.

“Sorry,” says Silver quickly, backing up. Flint can’t see him, can’t see what he sees, doesn’t really know what Silver means when he starts to say, “Do you want me to ---”

“No,” Flint says, because it’s highly likely he doesn’t want Silver to do _anything_. “This way.”

He starts hacking through another set of tree brush a few meters away. They are too far from the ocean to hear it anymore. No gulls flew overhead. He can tell by the position of the sun that they’re moving North, but more inland too.

“Where --” Silver starts, stops, then decides to soldier on. “Where exactly are we going, then?”

They’ve been walking most of the day now. Flint hurts. He doesn’t know when either of them last ate, or when they’ll eat again. So he sees no reason not to say, “I thought it was pretty obvious by now, Mr. Silver. I’m making this up as we go.”

 

* * *

 

It’s another hour or so before he finally hands Silver the knife and lets him do most of the work. Sometimes Flint points him in a direction, but for the most part, he lets Silver’s instincts do the heavy lifting.

He’s always been able to tell that Silver is a creature of survival, so when they wind up at nightfall beside a clearing, and a freshwater stream, Flint isn’t really surprised at all.

They have nothing to start a fire. One of them should really stay up and keep guard, but neither wants to volunteer. Silver tears a piece of cloth from the scarf around his waist, wets it with clean water, and hands it to Flint. All he says is, “Your shoulder.”

Flint had expected Silver to be a little shit about their eventual demise, but then Flint remembers Silver calling _him_ a cynic. He can't imagine Silver is a man of faith, and there's a difference between being an opportunist and an optimist. But if Silver still thinks there's a way out of this, Flint doesn't feel like correcting him.

They lay down in the dark. He hears Silver’s breath even out almost instantly in sleep, and shortly after Flint does the same. Perhaps they're a little closer than he’d thought he’d be comfortable with, but it's been a long day, and it's too dark to see each other anyway.

 

* * *

 

They pass the next two days the same way.

 

* * *

 

On the third day, they find the horse.

Their feet are blistered and aching, so much so that they’ve started to lean on each other a little bit as they walk, where the ground is uneven and rocky. Flint thinks he might have gotten lucky somehow, avoiding infection in his shoulder, but really that just means his death will be more drawn out. He’s wearing Silver’s scarf around his head like a turban, trying to avoid a burn. The trees canopy overhead and he can’t see the position of the sun, so he doesn’t really know what time it is or what direction they’re heading. They’ve long since felt the need to hurry to wherever it is they’re going.

“Silver?” Flint asks wearily.

“Yeah.”

“I know we’ve barely eaten these last few days, but it hasn't quite been long enough for the hallucinating to start.”

“Right,” says Silver.

“But I’ve also been dealing with some blood loss, not to mention a parade of the worst traumas ever known, stretching back for... weeks now, I’d say.”

“I’ll give you the blood loss,” Silver allows, “but if you're thinking you are more traumatized than I from having known you, I’ll have to contest it. But go on.”

“Right. So. Do you also see that horse over there?”

“I’m afraid so,” says Silver, and if he’s leaning hard into Flint’s side, it's only because Flint is leaning back, too.

The horse was, at one point, white. But now its flank is so caked with mud it looks brown from the neck down. It has no saddle, but the remains of some thin leather beaded reins still clung to its face. It pays them no attention at all, too busy eating the berries from a nearby bush.

“I suppose,” Silver says slowly, swaying a bit, “if that horse can eat those and not be poisoned, neither would we.”

“Probably,” says Flint, trying to ignore the rumble of hunger in his gut. “But how many berries does it take to kill a horse?”

They watch it for a while. The horse continues to live.

“Go on then,” says Silver, bumping his elbow. “Go get it.”

“What?”

“The _horse_. And some berries, while you’re at it.”

“Why should I?” Flint asks.

“Because wild horses respond to authority,” Silver says. “Go on, show it some of that old military officer flair.”

“That’s -- how did you know I was in the military?”

“A man like me can't survive a day without being able to recognize authority figures. Royal Navy, I’m guessing? You have tons more experience with horses than I, riding and fighting and what have you. Go get it.”

“No, hold on. I want to stay on this. Are you telling me you think Naval officers fight on horseback?”

Eventually, the horse approaches them. But only because it had grown full of the berries, and had come to drink from the stream they had spent the better part of two days following.

“Surely, this means there is civilization nearby, yes?” asks Silver around a mouthful of berries. “Like a seagull, but on land.”

Flint hums, fingering the reins around the horse’s face. They’re covered in as much mud as the rest of it. “Might mean there are people nearby,” Flint says. “Doesn't necessarily mean they’ll be civil.”

Once the bush is free of berries, and none of them are dead, Silver tentatively helps boost Flint onto the horse. It waits patiently for Flint to sit, letting him get settled easily on his back.

“I think,” says Silver, patting its face, “this might be a _good_ horse. I think it might save us.”

Flint is just thinking they could ride it until it died of exhaustion, and then they could eat it. Which, he feels, absolutely qualifies as saving them, but he's not going to mention it.

“Come on, then,” he says, holding his hand out to Silver. Three days ago, Silver might have hesitated, but nothing creates a stronger familiarity than a good trudging through the wilderness.

Silver grips his wrist, and together they manage to haul him behind Flint with minimal pain, though minimal dignity.

Silver huffs hard in Flint’s ear, chest inches from his back. His hands have automatically landed on Flint’s hips, but he seems in no hurry to move them and Flint isn't about to bring it up.

“Okay. How do you work this thing?” Silver asks. He squeezes his legs against the side of the horse. “Onward, steed.”

 " _Onwar--”_ Flint is about to start in on him, but then the horse starts to trot in the general direction they had been heading anyway, jerking Flint back a bit into Silver.

“Ha!” Silver’s mouth in too close to Flint’s ear when he says, “Looks like I’ve got some authority, too.”

Flint swallows, the aftertaste of wild berries too sweet and dry on his tongue. “It’s probably leading us back to where it came from,” Flint says. “Where we’ll be sufficiently, immediately slaughtered.”

“As long as I don't have to walk anymore.” And suddenly, Silver is plastered completely to Flint’s back, head resting against the nape of Flint’s neck.

“....Silver?”

Silver just lets out a little snore. Flint is tempted to elbow him awake, not just because it's annoying and not fair, but because he's liable to fall off the horse this way.

“I hope you know where you’re going,” Flint tells the horse, taking Silver’s hands off his hips and wrapping them around his waist. It felt a little more secure, this way, and at least if Silver fell, Flint would fall too.

 

* * *

 

At some point, Flint falls asleep too.

It’s not his fault. Even with the exhaustion of walking all day, sleeping when they’d finally stop each night had been difficult to come by, the ground too still and the stakes too high. But the easy trot of the horse had been not unlike the the gentle rocking of a ship, and Flint had been quick to nod off.

It’s a miracle they didn’t slip off and crack their heads open.

Flint wakes up with something -- some _one_ \-- poking him hard in the side, and he sits up with a jolt.

“What?” He twists away, hand going automatically for the dagger at his side. “Fuck. _What?_ ”

There’s a pointed pause from behind, and he glances over his shoulder to see Silver, very close to his own face. Silver’s eyes are wide and alarmed, and not, Flint realizes, in fear of Flint.

Slowly, Flint looks around. It seems the fucking horse kept walking through the night, without their encouragement, because the sky is pale with dawn and everything is covered with a morning dew.

Except it’s not dew. It’s _mist_ . They’re in an expansive clearing, surrounded by rock and water on one side and forest on the other. A cliff towers over them, curtained by a roaring waterfall. Flint has read accounts of this area’s terrain by recent explorers, and he’s pretty sure none of them ever mentioned anything _mountainous_ before.

In the center of the clearing stood a large rock. The horse had brought them to a stop in front of it, and is now just milling around it. Almost like it’s waiting for something to happen.

“So much for leading us to civilization,” Silver mutters. He withdraws from where he’s still pressed to Flint’s back, and moves like he’s going to get off the horse.

“Don’t.” Flint’s watching the treeline, which just looks dark and still and green. “Stay up here.”

“What?” Silver leans back in. “Why?”

“Because I’m unsettled.”

“...by the big rock? It _is_ pretty menacing, I suppose. In a rocky way.”

“ _No_ , just -- “ Flint grips the reins tighter, digging his heels into the horse’s side, but it doesn’t budge. “There’s no reason to stay here anyway. I --”

An arrow whizzes by, inches from their faces. It emerges from the dark on one side and disappears into the dark on the other.

Nothing else happens for a moment.

“Okay,” says Silver, grabbing Flint’s arms. “I, too, am unsettled. Let’s get the f--”

A cry from the darkness, and suddenly a great wave of people rush them from the trees. Angry-looking people in animal skins, with sharp objects strapped to the end of long sticks, and dark tattoos criss-crossing their piss-off faces and their bare, muscular arms and chest. They approach swiftly as one, and _now_ the horse moves, backing them up against the big rock with an alarmed whine.

Flint reacts on instinct, grabbing the knife on his waist and slashing it out and down towards the nearest warrior, one wearing the skin of a bear. But the man is too far for anything other than surface damage, though it does knock him backwards in shock, cradling his face on the floor.

Another warrior in a cougar skin leaps forward, snarl wide on her face as she lifts a dagger much meaner and larger than Flint’s. Flint doesn’t really know what he’s doing -- he hasn’t had to participate in a knife fight since his early days on Nassau when he’d had to prove himself over and over again -- but he’d never had to do it on so empty a stomach, on _horseback_ , facing a dozen or so other opponents, and. Well. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, but he raises his own knife to do it anyway.

At the same moment, Silver reaches from behind, grabs the horse’s abandoned reins, and _pulls_. The horse rears back with a loud, panicked whinny, Flint clutching at Silver’s arm so as not to fall off. They’re still up against the big rock, but the warriors fall back to avoid getting kicked.

Day breaks over the trees, hitting the clearing with its first real light.

The horse lowers its front legs to the ground, causing Flint’s turban to slip over his eyes. He pulls it back just in time to see the snarling warrior lash out with her dagger, only for her arm to be caught by another. Wordlessly, he points at them, or maybe he’s pointing at the horse, or maybe he’s pointing at the rock behind them. But whatever it is, the snarl slips from her face quickly, replaced by a shaken look. She snatches her arm back, but she just re-sheathes her knife, and doesn’t look at Flint when she kneels to help the bear-skinned warrior off the floor.

“What the _fuck_ is happening right now,” Silver hisses into Flint’s ear.

One of the warriors in front points them around the big rock to the waterfall, and another behind them taps the horse on the rear with the broad side of its spear. The group around them starts to move, and the horse -- follows.

“No,” Flint spits, grabbing Silver’s hands still holding the reins. They both tug. “ _No_ , you -- stupid -- fucking -- _bastard_ \-- _no_ \--”

The horse doesn’t listen, shaking its head against the tugging, and continues to follow the people with all the weapons.

“Should we be running?” Silver whispers. “This definitely feels like it might be a running moment.”

It absolutely feels like a running moment. But they were surrounded on all sides, and besides, did Silver not _see_ the size of their _calves?_ Even if they hadn’t been walking for days without food, they’d be no match. They’d be caught before they’d even fully slid off the fucking horse.

Before Flint could answer, they were at the waterfall, and then they were _through_ it. Water pounds down on their heads like rain made out of stone, and it’s cold and dizzying, knocking the air out of Flint. He’s still gasping as they enter a great cavern.

The waterfall flows at the beginning -- or end -- of a wide underground river. The splashes echo up and up, the walls of the cavern taller than any grand church he’s ever set foot in, not that there were that many.

But the most surprising thing is the small fleet of ships waiting on the river.

They’re silently ushered onto one of the bigger ones. It’s smaller than the _Walrus_ , certainly, but Flint can’t figure out how the fuck they got it inside a mountain, or why the fuck they’re sailing further _inside_ a mountain, or where the fuck that _wind_ is coming from for the sails to actually move them.

He slides off the horse. No one stops him. He sits down heavily on a bench. No one stops him.

Silver sits down next to him. The horse idles nearby. Flint realizes he’s still gripping his knife, and somewhat reluctantly, slides it back into his belt.

“Okay,” he says lowly to Silver. “So _this_ is definitely a hallucination.”

Silver just hums in agreement.

Of course, they’re sharing their ship with the injured warrior and the snarling warrior, although neither look as fearsome as before. They sit on the bench opposite, but they both avoid Flint’s gaze. The man is still cradling his bleeding cheek.

The ships move deeper into the mountain. Flint doesn’t really know what to say or do, so he says and does nothing. Silver is pressed closed to his side, but they don’t speak. Silver, he can tell, is watching the warrior couple curiously, but when Flint glances over at them, all he sees is the woman treating the man’s wound.

Flint busies himself with glaring at the horse.

Stupid fucking thing had _led_ them right into this fucking _trap_  He’d been _tricked_ by a stupid fucking horse, and when he finally musters up the energy to kill his way out of this, he’s starting with that stupid fucking creature.

The horse is careless of his glare. Its ears flick absently as drops of water fall occasionally from the roof of the cavern. The walk through the waterfall had cleared away some of the mud covering its fur. Its mane and tale look gray, and the reins around its face look -- odd. Light from one of the ships’ torches hit the beads along the strings, and it almost gleamed.

To his side, he hears Silver gasp and mutter, “Did you _see_ that?” But a quick glimpse tells Flint Silver is still looking at the two warriors, and so he doesn’t answer. He reaches for the horse’s reins. He’s assumed they were made of wood and leather, but as soon as he touches them the mud, which must have caked and dried in the sun, smeared along his hand, revealing -- something else. He tries to angle it closer to the light, but then he sees the light is growing, spilling white all over the whole cavern, over the fleet of ships.

He looks over his shoulder as they sail through a curtain of vines, into a blinding light --

Flint shuts his eyes to it, turning away. He’s still holding the reins, and when he’s finally able to open his eyes again, they’re the first thing he sees, shining against the mud on his palm.

It takes him a moment to speak. “Silver,” he gasps. “Silver, this is --”

Silver grabs his wrist again. Grabs it tight, so tight Flint can see his knuckles whiten. He looks up to see what’s wrong, and for a moment he thinks he’s being blinded again.

His first thought when his vision clears -- and Flint will never, ever admit this until his dying day, but his very first thought is how nice Silver’s face looks when he’s lit up by the reflection of the sun hitting a city of gold.

His second thought, then, is: a _city_ of _gold_.

Inlaid in the stones of every building, patching the cracks in every road, twisting up the trunks of every tree, adorning the hands and feet and hair of every curious citizen lining the river’s edge watching their approach -- all shining and shimmering with fucking gold.

A pink bird sails overhead, with a wingspan larger than Flint is tall, and the thing is so impossibly huge but Flint finds it easier, for the moment, to look at it instead of…everything else. He watches it helplessly, as it flies high over the lush trees, over the -- _fuck_ \-- gold-plated rooftops, before it swoops low towards the river. Flint watches, and then jerks back in shock when his eye catches the giant fucking purple fish swimming benignly beneath the ship, tiger-striped, three-eyed, bigger than any house on shore.

“So,” Silver says faintly. “Clearly. This, ah. This isn’t a hallucination.”

“Yeah,” Flint says.

“Right. Because, clearly. We just. Died. At some point. We’re both already dead.”

“Yeah”

“And this is -- Heaven?” Silver turns to him, frowning. “Does that seem right to you?”

“Not really, no.”

The first ship in the fleet has already hit the dock, and two warriors immediately deboard, both running off in different directions. Flint had been right about their calves, earlier -- they were both very fast.

“So, what’s the play?” Silver asks him, somewhat desperately. “Is there a play? Can we still do plays if we’re dead or are we beyond that?”

“At this point, I know as much as you do, Silver.”

“But….so we’re just….”

“City of gold,” Flint says, pointing. “Bastard fucking horse. Big fish. This is the extent of my knowledge as to what’s happened thus far.”

Silver still looks seconds from panicking, though. Without really examining the impulse, Flint takes Silver’s hand, lacing their fingers together. It’s because they’re already dead, he reasons, that he can do this. It’s because they’re already dead, that Silver doesn’t even question it and just squeezing Flint’s hand tightly back.

When their ship finally reaches the dock, a crowd is waiting for them. But standing slightly apart and slightly in front of the crowd are two men, one incredibly large, one tall and thin, both with somber expressions on their faces. Silver isn't the only one able to recognize authority figures on sight.

Behind them stands a grand pyramid, tall enough to block the rising morning sun. Not that the scene was shaded. Sunlight bounced off every imaginable surface, casting everything with an orange hue. The air is warm and smells of fruit and cooking meats, and his stomach rumbles in a worrying way. Dead men don't stay hungry.

Their ship hits the small dock, and everyone on board looks to them to get off first. Flint realizes he's still holding Silver’s hand, and untangles his fingers gently as he strives to stand upright, not wanting to waver. Either he's dead and judgement is about to be passed, or he’s about to die, and either way he plans to meet it on his feet.

As they pass, Silver stumble a little into the snarling warrior. She doesn't, as Flint would think, snarl at him, but just looks at Silver with wide eyes beneath the cougar’s face on her head. Flint grabs Silver’s elbow to steady him, but he's already moving on.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs like it’s a habit, which is odd. Flint wouldn't have ever guessed that as a habit Silver would have.

And then, they're standing before the two men by the river. Flint is a little worried that they’ve brought the fucking horse to stand with them. He doesn't want to be associated with it. The large man looks slightly anxious, whereas the thin man is -- grinning, which is -- troubling.

“Behold!” the thin man shouts, addressing the crowd instead. “As the prophecy has foretold! The time of Judgement is now!”

The words only register after a few seconds, Flint stuck on wondering how the _fuck_ they speak _English?_

“Citizens, did I not tell you,” the thin man booms, turning his predatory grin to Flint and Silver, “that the Gods would one day come back to El Dorado?”

Flint and Silver glance at each other quickly. There's a lot to unpack there, but Flint sees Silver’s lips twitch, sees something working in those damn blue eyes of his. It had been the same look he’d worn in Flint’s cabin, days ago, when he’d found Flint on the floor with Gates. It’s a look that says he might not understand exactly what’s happening, but he’s already working out a way to benefit from it.

Silver looks back at the men quickly. He clears his throat. “Hi,” he says.

“My Lords,” says the thin man, sweeping low into a bow, getting close, “I am Tzekel-Kan, your devoted High Priest, and speaker for the gods.”

“And I am Chief Tannabok,” says the large man, stepping forward. His voice is much softer and kinder than the other man’s. “What names may we call you?”

Flint looks at Silver again. Silver raises his eyebrow, apparently waiting for Flint to speak. He doesn't quite feel ready yet, so he tilts his head towards Silver. Silver smiles, and Flint already regrets it.

He steps forward. “They call me... _Silver_ ,” and good fucking _lord_ , what kind of voice is he _doing?_

All eyes turn to Flint.

“Flint,” says Flint.

“And they call us _Silver_ and _Flint!”_ The quick glance Silver sneaks his way confirms it. The bastard is doing an impression of _him_.

“ _Flint_ and Silver,” Flint mutters, but he doesn’t think anyone hears it.

“Of course,” says Tzekel-Kan excitedly, looking like he wants to reach out and touch. “ _Flint_ , the spark that lights the fire, God of the Day and Guardian of the Sun! And _Silver_ , like the shine from the stars, God of the Night, Face in the Moon! How perfect, how _fortuitous_! Your arrival has been greatly anticipated.”

“Fortuitous,” Flint agrees faintly. If Silver is doing an impression of him, it’s only right that he sound not unlike how Silver did when Flint told him they were going to steal the warship. Like an idiot.

“My Lords, how long will you be staying in El Dorado?” Chief Tannabok asks. “Why now do you choose to visit us?”

There’s that word again. _El Dorado_. It refuses to stick in Flint’s mind. It’s like trying to crawl up the side of a ship without a rope. The word desperately looks for something to cling to, but finding nothing, just slips back into the sea. _El Dorado._ It’s impossible.

Silver opens his mouth to respond, and Flint’s never been so thankful for Silver’s ability to answer any question, but Tzekel-Kan interrupts.

“Enough!” he shouts, turning on the Chief. “You do not question the Gods!”

“Yeah!” Silver leaps at this, still doing the Flint-voice. “Do not question us, the Gods. Or we might have to visit our wrath upon you!”

Flint yanks Silver back by the arm, but it doesn't shut him up fast enough.

“Please, do!” Tzekal-Kan shouts, looking at the Chief with malicious glee. “A display of your Godly might will surely silence this non-believer.”

Now, Silver doesn't have anything to say. Now, his mouth hangs open for a moment before snapping shut, and it seems as if he's purposely avoiding meeting Flint's eye.

“Just a moment,” Flint says calmly to Tzekal-Kan, pulling Silver to the side. The people give them plenty of space.

They stand there for a moment. Flint watches, arms folded, as Silver fidgets, looking everywhere but at Flint. In truth, he could watch Silver squirm like this for longer than he'd care to admit, but they seem to be, now, on the clock.

“I don't suppose,” Flint says eventually, “that you have some kind of God-like powers you've been hiding from me all this time, do you?”

“Ah,” says Silver. “No.”

“Okay,” says Flint. “Okay.”

“It's not my fault!' Silver says guiltily. “You've said exactly three words since we've arrived, and two of them were your own name! I'm not prepared to take the lead for this long when you're around!”

“ _Obviously,_ ” Flint hisses, even though Silver isn't wrong. But it's not his fault either, dealing with the growing realization, the dawning horror, the impossible fact that they seem to be still, in fact, alive. He glances around, looking for some kind of inspiration. All he sees is Tzekal-Kan, so happy he looks near tears. Everyone else – from the wizened old men with tattoos blurring into the wrinkles on their faces, to the little children clutching at dolls made of straw and gold – all look at him with terror in their hearts.

He looks back at Silver, who is wearing an expression utterly unsuited for a God. “Will you let me handle this?” he asks quietly.

Silver sighs with relief. “Yes, please.”

Flint sighs as well, then turns back to Tzekal-Kan. “Priest,” he says, and has to take a step back when the man jumps forward.

“How can I help, my L--”

“What did you refer to me as, before?” Flint interrupts. He is _not_ doing a voice like Silver was doing. “God of the Day, you said?”

Tzekal-Kan blinks at him. “I – yes. Was I not --”

“And I look around,” Flint says, looking around, “and I see before me, it is day. It is _my_ time. Do you see that it is also daytime, Priest?”

“Why – yes. My Lord.”

“Did the sun rise as it should today, Priest? Did the morning birds sing? Does the river flow as it should?”

An audible gasp ripples through the crowd, someone somewhere lets out a small shriek, and Silver touches his elbow. Tzekal-Kan's eyes widen at something behind Flint, fear and pleasure warring on his face.

“My Lord --” he starts.

Flint steps closer, catching Tzekal-Kan's gaze again. “And yet you, a man of faith, stand before us, demanding – what? A show of power, a magic trick, as though your eyes weren't lit up by _my_ divine light?” Flint calls upon every encounter he's had with a religious man, hoping to get the pomp right. “Do you think your Gods to be dolls, Priest? Puppets, here to dance for your amusement?”

Behind him, Flint hears a splash, more gasps and yells, people backing away into each other. Silver shifts anxiously at his side. Flint desperately wants look at whatever the fuck is happening, but he can't leave the fear in Tzekal-Kan's eyes.

“Flint,” Silver interjects, urgently but trying to hide it. “ _Surely_ , our devoted priest here simply misspoke. A man as devout as he wouldn't ask such a _disrespectful_ thing of us. I think you can _stop_ now.”

“--Yes, my Lord, of _course_ , I meant no offense. I--”

Flint hums. “I suppose.” He looks away, both dismissing Tzekal-Kan entirely and getting to see what everyone else was seeing.

He turns to the giant _fucking_ snake, which had apparently slithered out of the river, as evidenced by the fact that part of it still rests in the water, yet at least eight feet of massive green body the width of a tree trunk writhed up along the river bank towards a little girl, no older than two, too scared to move. The snake opens its jaws. Flint can see venom dripping from its fangs. He opens his mouth – to say _what_ , he hasn't a clue. But at that moment, the great pink bird he saw earlier swoops down again, snatching the snake in its large orange talons, and takes off. The snake screams in a way Flint hadn't thought possible for snakes to do, twisting against the claws as it’s lifted into the air. River water showers down on the crowd as the massive animals fly away. The bird's victorious caw echoes over the trees as they both disappear into the morning mist.

Stunned silence, and then, one by one, every person gets down on their knees, foreheads touching the dirt in a solemn bow. Tzekal-Kan is among them, and after a slight hesitation, the Chief bows too.

No one has ever bowed before Flint before, and he finds it highly unlikely anyone has done it to Silver either. He's not sure what he's meant to do. Say thank you? Bow back?

“Mighty Lords,” Tzekal-Kan says, rising. He looks a little shaken still, not quite meeting Flint's eyes again, but he sounds utterly pleased. “Let us show you to your temple.”

He and the Chief lead them up the pyramid, the rest of the people waiting for them to pass before rising off the ground. Flint is pleased to see the horse stays on the fucking ground with the rest of the people of El Dorado.

“I don't suppose,” Silver says under his breath as they climb a few paces behind the two men, “that _you_ have some kind of God-like powers _you've_ been hiding from me all this time, do you?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Flint says. “What happened?”

“You started your Godly menacing,” Silver says, “which was truly breathtaking, by the way. I should have known you'd take to this easily. I think you've missed your calling as a God. And while the good Priest there was struggling not to faint, a giant fucking snake rose out from the river and nearly ate a baby. And then a bird ate the snake. And then you got all the credit, as per usual.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Flint says in a normal volume. The two men up ahead turn back to them, but quickly look away once Flint gives them a firm nod.

“I think what you mean to say,” Silver says with a smirk, “is _James fucking Flint_?”

 

* * *

 

They’re finally left alone, after agreeing to a glorious feast in their honor later that night (welcomed) and a reverent ceremony at dawn (unavoidable). Flint might have protested the latter, but then he’d caught sight of the long table in the center of the temple, piled high with fruits, cured meats, breads, nuts, and bottles and bottles of wine -- and he would have agreed to be tomorrow morning’s sacrificial lamb if it meant the two other men would _go_.

Flint and Silver eat in silence for almost twenty minutes. Afterwards, Silver collapses on a pile of pillows, still clutching a half-eaten mango.

“Okay,” he says, groaning. “I’m starting to doubt that we’re already dead, because I think I’m dying right now.” His eyes swivel over the richly decorated, cavernous ceiling. “Holy shit. Flint.”

“I know,” says Flint.

“ _Flint._ ”

“I _know_.”

“Holy _shit,_ ” Silver says. “ _Flint._ ”

Flint takes the scarf off his head and throws it on Silver’s face, where he just lets it sit for a moment. Flint sits down on a cushioned red couch, softer than anything he’s felt since his days in London. He finally takes a proper look around. Aside from the buffet table (now missing a serious portion of food), there are dozens of objects scattered all throughout the room. Candles, jewelry, furniture, pillows, cutlery, random pieces of gold, artworks, animal skins, pottery, and in the back, what is either a large pond or a small lake, filled with steaming water that Flint realizes is supposed to be a bathtub. It looks more like a cargo hold than a temple. He imagines the people had used it as storage for maybe centuries, until they suddenly found it’s occupants on their doorsteps, and they’d hastened to make it presentable. The food and the water were the only things that look fresh.

He says it out loud. He can’t avoid it now; there’s nothing else to say.

“El Dorado,” he says.

“It’s impossible,” Silver says immediately, scarf still over his face. “It’s a myth.”

“So was the _Urca_ ,” Flint points out.

“That was _just_ impossible. Everyone knew it was _real_ . More or less.” Silver finally pulls off the scarf and looks at him. “Christ, you found both the Urca de Lima _and_ El Dorado. You’re like a fucking bloodhound for gold. I’m never leaving your side again.”

Flint feels warm all of a sudden, hopes desperately he’s having an allergic reaction to some kind of exotic fruit. “You helped me find both,” he mutters, not meeting his eye. “You were essential. Maybe _you’re_ the lucky one.”

Silver snorts. “All evidence of my previous life to the contrary.” He sits up suddenly, looking pained, and digs out from his mountain of pillows a gold candlestick that must have been digging into his back. He stares at it with wonder. “This is probably more money than I’ve ever held in my entire life.”

Flint can’t look at the expression on Silver’s face. “So you think this is real, then. We’re not dead or hallucinating, two utterly more likely scenarios than this all being our real actual fucking situation.”

Silver sits up fully on his pillows, crossing his legs. He’s still holding the candlestick, and the mango. “At first, I thought we were dead. I thought this might actually be Hell. Like some kind of perverse, yet justified vision of Hell, like from Dante. All the wealth we’ve ever dreamed of, but we’d be unable to enjoy it. That the gold would be untouchable, or that the food would turn to ash in our mouths. I thought we’d have all our earthly desires before us and not take any pleasure from it at all.” He pauses, and takes a big bite out of his mango. Mouth full, smiling, he says, “This is the most pleasurable fucking mango I’ve ever tasted.” He swallows it down, and tosses the chewed piece of fruit to Flint, who catches it easily. “So if it all _feels_ good, and if we _are_ dead, then that would make this Heaven. And I don’t know about you, but that is _not_ the more likely scenario for me than all this being real. And so…”

Flint’s eyes track the drops of juice wetting Silver’s lips. Fine, so this might all be real, but that doesn’t mean he is any less delirious.

And so, Flint takes a bite of the mango.

“I guess it is real,” he says. He shifts on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t pain his shoulder. “Which of course means we might still be murdered, since we are _impersonating deities_. Or I might die of infection any day now.”

“Oh!” Silver gently places down the candlestick, rises, and walks over to Flint on his knees. “I stole something for you.”

“We’ve been here _five minutes_ …”

“And it was a good thing I did, too. "He pulls a small jar of his pocket. “I don’t think Gods are supposed to die from bullet wounds.

Silver goes to open it, but Flint snatches it out of his hand. “What is it?”

Silver grabs it back. “I don’t know. But I saw it heal the soldier you cut when we were on the ship. I took it off that woman who liked you so much.”

All those soldiers had been wearing was thin skirts and animal skins. “Where was she _keeping_ it?” Then he asks, “What does it do?”

Silver shrugs. “The man’s cut was entirely gone once she’d applied it.”

“But that’s -- “

“Impossible?” Silver’s eyes sparkle, the asshole. “Kinda like how we can understand every word they’re saying in whatever language they’re speaking?”

“You don’t think they’re speaking English?” Flint raises an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure I was speaking English.”

Silver holds out the jar. It has a label. Flint looks at it, but it just has a few symbols on it. Then Silver tilts it a little, and Flint can read, plain as day, “HEALTH.” The words shimmer back and forth like a mirage.

“I think we’re just going to have to accept that things are impossible from now on,” says Silver, “and go from there. Now take off your shirt.”

Flint starts. “I can -- “

“I don’t see any mirrors, Captain. Can’t have you missing a spot.”

Silver is very close to him, and they’ve been sitting close for days now, but never face to face. He’s never been close enough to see the different shades of blue around his pupil, close enough to see how pink the skin around his eyes look against the full black of his eyelashes. Except for that one time, in the Wrecks, when they’d first met. He takes off his shirt.

Silver doesn’t say anything. He starts applying the cream. It stings a little under Silver’s hands, like saltwater in an open wound.

“Who pulled me out of the sea?” Flint asks suddenly. “I remember sinking, and then waking up on shore.” _Next to you,_ he doesn’t say, because Silver already knows that.

Silver glances at him quickly through those eyelashes. “I don’t know,” he says, a second too late.

“They had just mutinied,” Flint presses. “Not one of them wanted to see me live. Who would risk --”

“I don’t know,” Silver says again, soft and fast. “I didn’t see.”

Flint wants to ask who also attempted to bandage his wounds while he’d been unconscious, but he suspects he’d get the same response - a non-answer that’s more of an answer than anything.

But then Silver gasps, and they both watch Flint’s torn skin shrink on itself, sealing the opening like clouds converging, until all that’s left is flaking blood and magic ointment on his skin.

“What’s it feel like?” Silver asks.

“Nothing really.” Flint rotates his shoulder. “It still aches a bit. Like a memory.”

Silver hums. “Let me do the back. And your face. Good thing the scarf hid these or this ruse never would have worked. Can I…?”

Flint nods, and this time his excuse is he can’t see these particular injuries. All this shit in this temple, there must be a mirror somewhere, but this couch is too comfortable, and Silver seems determined to tend to this wounds, and has, Flint suspects, been determined for days now.

They dab the rest of the cream on their blistered feet, Flint’s busted knuckles, Silver’s bruised ribs. He doesn’t know how Silver got those but he’s glad to seem them go. After they’ve washed up and eaten again, they still have a few more hours until their glorious feast. Flint wants to sleep, and is about to, when Silver drops a couple heavy books in his lap.

“Have you ever run a con before, Flint?” he asks, hands on his hips.

“Er,” Flint says. “No. Not a traditional one, anyway.”

Silver smiles, hearing the answer he wanted. “Then, I shall be your teacher. The first and most important thing is to know all you can about your intended mark. _Our_ mark is the entire community and the whole religion of El Dorado, something which had just been a child’s tale to us a few hours ago. We have much to learn.”

Flint opens the books. One seems to be a history book, tales of battles and conquests and discoveries, and something that looks like a sacred text. “You want us to read these?”

“I want _you_ to read these,” Silver says. “Out loud, to me. If I don’t get to touch and sort through all the gold in here, I think I’m going to have some kind of stroke. Also there is only one copy of each in here. Please?”

It’s the question at the end which, unfortunately, does it for Flint. He opens what he guesses is the the El Dorado version of the Bible. “You’ll sure you’ll listen? And remember it all?”

“I’ve got a good memory,” Silver says, grinning the same way he had when Flint had him pressed against the rocks, and Silver had pointed to temple and set all of this shit into motion. “Also, you’ve got a voice that demands listening to. So. This is lesson one, my pupil. Get to it.”

“Cheek,” Flint mutters, staring at the words. They flicker back and forth between symbols and letters as he shifts the pages, just enough to be annoying. “I’ll have to return the favor someday and teach _you_ a lesson.”

Silver doesn’t say anything right away, and when he does he sounds a little strange. “Someday.” But when Flint looks over, Silver is already elbows-deep in a pile of gold.

Flint turns back to the book. “'Before the sky, and before the land,'” he reads, “'there was just the water.  Beneath it there was nothingness, and above it there was nothingness. It rolled in nothingness, until the Sun God came to illuminate it.'”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's great writing an au of a movie so you watch it repeatedly and notice all the plot holes
> 
> and by great i mean terrible

They get through most of the books by the time the sun starts to set, because Flint is an efficient reader, and Silver’s memory _is_ that good. They stop to eat and quiz each other sporadically throughout the day, and Silver never pauses in his answers.

He's also made several piles of stuff -- cutlery, furniture, idols, jewelry, textiles -- and to Flint, it doesn't look any more organized. But he supposes it must make sense to Silver, who Flint has caught having several private discussions with himself under his breath over which pile to put things in.

By late afternoon, the only other people they see are two young locals. They climb the steep steps leading up to the temple, silently drop a heavy box just inside the entryway and leave without ever looking at them. Inside the box is -- well, Flint supposes that constitutes an outfit.

One of the things Silver did manage to find is something like a mirror. It's a bit too shiny, too crystallized, too unlike anything Flint has seen, even in a home like the Hamiltons had. Flint stands in front of it now. Down below the temple, fires are starting to be lit. He can smell meat cooking all the way up here, and he can hear musicians practicing the same song over and over, the beat stopping and starting like his own damn heart. The feast is nearing.

“I don't think I can do this,” Flint says.

“Sure you can,” Silver says from behind. He's a little ways away, leaning in the entryway, looking down at El Dorado. “If you can sway a vicious, mutinous band of pirates back into your favor armed with naught by a lie, a blank sheet of paper, and a heavy ball, you can convince these people you're something sacred easily. It's not like you don't present yourself as a Godking already.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Flint says drily. “But I was referring to this tie.”

“Oh.” Silver pauses. “Do you -- want my help?”

Flint isn't about to say please. “Unless you think I should attend this glorious feast to our Holiness in the nude.”

Another longer pause. “Yeah. That’d be. Not great.”

Flint turns, clutching the blue skirt around his waist tightly. He feels like he should be more delicate with it, seeing as it has been patterned with gold thread, streaking through the soft cloth like sun rays. But the thing about being surrounded by all this gold is, you stop caring about it so much after awhile. What he cares about right now is -- it’s a _skirt._  

Silver and Flint stare at each other from across the temple.

Flint had thought there’d be no way to make this outfit look even slightly regal. The people of El Dorado, dark and beautiful and muscular -- they can pull this look off easily. Everyone out there looks noble. Flint just looks lost and naked, pathetic. But looking at Silver now, he thinks maybe he gets it.

Silver’s own skirt is a dark purple, the shade of a late evening sky, speckled with gold flakes like stars. It stops just above the knee, tied perfectly around his slim waist, tight enough that it doesn’t slip at all as he approaches Flint. He’s got a matching purple collar of the same material, curving low and stopping just about his nipples, and around his wrists and ankles are bright gold cuffs. The way the candlelight bounces off them as he moves is blinding. His unblemished skin looks like gold, too.

“Be honest,” Flint says eventually, realizing he hasn’t said _anything_ for too long. “The crown was the first thing you put on.”

Silver smiles, but doesn’t deny it. “You have one too, you know,” he says, pointing to Flint’s own ridiculous, green-feathered headdress still in the box. Their crowns match. “Shall I?”

Flint can’t let go of the skirt or else it will fall, so he has to force himself not to react when Silver’s hands brush over his own to take the ties from him. He’s spent all day eating and reading, two things that usually relax him, but he still feels fucking delirious.

Especially when Silver tugs the ties hard to tighten them, pulling Flint a step too close. He looks down at Silver’s chest, at Silver’s hands moving so near his cock. He feels _delirious_. It doesn’t help him feel any saner, either, catching sight of his own bare chest, looking as it does.

“It’s unreal,” he says into the thin air between them.  He runs a hand over his belly. “I don’t think I’ve been so unmarked by injury since I was a child.”

Silver’s eyes follow Flint’s hand, skipping over Flint’s chest dangerously, before he steps away. The skirt, miraculously, stays on.

“Must have been a nice childhood,” Silver says, shooting Flint a quick half-smile before turning back to the box.

Flint is about to question that, but then Silver grabs the matching blue collar. It’s a little too familiar to Silver fixing his injuries earlier that day. He can do _this_ by himself, but still, he turns around so Silver can lace it behind his neck, holding his loose hair to the side.

“Exactly...how drunk do you think we’re allowed to get tonight?” Silver asks, voice stilted. “As Gods, I mean.”

“Pagan Gods got drunk all the time,” Flint responds. “And there was that one parable of their Sea Goddess getting drunk enough to cause a tsunami. So, let’s just say not drunk enough they think we’ll cause a natural disaster, and not drunk enough we accidentally blow this whole thing.”

“Good call.” Silver sounds like he’s taken a step back, so Flint turns back around.

He’s back by the box. Wordlessly, he picks up two large gold cuffs, and then, wordlessly still, comes to stand in front of Flint. It’s still silent, silent enough they could both hear the soft sound Flint makes when Silver drops to his knees, and starts placing on the ankle bands.

Flint swallows heavily, resisting the urge to do something he might regret, like grabbing Silver’s hair.

But Silver is quick to attach the anklets and quick to rise. His cheeks are red and his eyes confused, like he’s not even sure why he did that, either. Then, something else distracts him.

He touches Flint’s bicep. “They probably shouldn’t see that,” he says, thumb running over the small crescent moon. “You are their Daytime God, after all. I don’t know what they’d make of you with -- my… _mark_ , I guess, on you like this.”

“What do you suggest?” Flint asks.

Silver frowns. “It might make us seem more celestial, but it also might just confuse them.” He bites his lip. “Better not risk it.” He heads over to one of his many piles of stuff.

“No,” says Flint, rolling his eyes. “We’re absolutely not about taking stupid risks, the two of us.”

“Hope there isn’t any significance in the ones they brought for us,” Silver says, ignoring him, and coming back over with two larger cuffs, both etched with swirling lines. Once again, he takes to putting them on Flint himself, snapping them over Flint’s upper arms and sufficiently hiding the moon. They’re a little tight over his biceps and it's odd, but perhaps he’s just unused to it. It's an illusion of restriction, and maybe that's why he doesn't hate the feel of it.

“Last, but certainly not least…” Silver says, grabbing the crown.

Flint snatches it from him, dropping it down carelessly on his head and facing the mirror again. He's not about to let Silver _crown_ him. Silver looks at him over his shoulder in the reflection, his eyes light.

“Couple of Gods,” Silver says.

“We look like madmen,” Flint says.

Silver shrugs. “What’s the difference?”

Then, Silver says, “Oh! One other thing.” He retreats back to the same pile as before.

Flint stares at himself so as not to watch Silver’s muscles move, the dimples in his lower back, the curve of his rear not nearly as well masked as it had been in his regular trousers. “I haven’t been this bare-assed in front of others since I was born, I think,” he muses, fingering the collar, which serves no real purpose he can tell. “Outside of sex, I mean.”

A crash from behind as several objects from one of Silver’s piles go tumbling down.

“Sorry,” says Silver, when Flint frowns at him. He’s a little out of breath. “I was looking for -- this is the smallest one I could find. They don’t seem to _do_ small around here.”

He hands Flint a gold earring, about the size of his thumbnail. It has a green jewel in the center, shaped like a raindrop.

“Guess I can’t go out there with this bronze one,” Flint mutters, taking it out. “Smart.”

Silver smiles at him widely. “Can’t have you going out there, clashing. You’d look ridiculous.”

The new earring is heavier, but not uncomfortably so. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear so he can see it better in the mirror. He decided that though the rest of the outfit is dreadful, this, he likes.

“Ready?” Silver asks.

They head to the entryway. They look down at El Dorado. The sun had made the gold city shine, but the twilight makes everything utterly luminous.

“You know,” Silver says, “from those books, I take it to mean we’re not very _nice_ Gods.”

It’s true. The parables were filled with violent stories of smiting, wrath, and war. Cautionary tales against angering the Gods, the good they gave out vicariously, the ill they doled out on whims.

“We’re not very nice men,” Flint point out.

“I know,” says Silver. “But maybe...maybe we could be better Gods?”

Flint watches Silver’s profile. Unlike him, Silver doesn’t seem like he’s gotten used to all the gold. He still looks at it with untold, unchained wonder.

“Let’s start with being drunken Gods,” he says, “and go from there.”

They head down the steps of the temple. The celebrations don’t start until they arrive.

 

* * *

 

 

Tzekel-Kan starts the feast with a speech and a prayer, which they graciously allow. One of the things Silver had told him about conning someone is to let the mark do as much talking as possible -- so as to learn all that you can, and to lessen any opportunities to fuck things up yourself. However, Tzekel-Kan’s prayer hints dangerously close to hours-long territory, so neither protest when the Chief puts an end to it, seeing as it's _his_ turn to honor the Gods, after all.

The music starts, as does the singing, and they are shown to a couple high golden chairs beside a beautiful pond. Someone bows and hands Flint a pipe, and he shrugs, inhales deeply. He just barely keeps his un-Godly cough in check, the smoke slightly acrid, slightly spicy on his tongue.

Silver deftly takes the pipe from him, and Flint watched carefully as Silver brings the wet end of it to his lips. He exhales easily through his nostrils, through his teeth as he grins. The sight of Silver, smoldering, is the last solid sight Flint sees for awhile.

He eats. He drinks. He forgets he’s not wearing any clothes for a bit, until he suddenly, horribly remembers. He loses track of Silver sometimes, other times he seems attached to his side. He drinks some more. He sees the fucking traitorous horse, prancing around the shallow waters with kids on its back. People wearing masks and costumes approach him, kiss his cheeks and disappear into an air littered with sparks from all the fires. Puppets and kites dance and sway before his eyes. The bands play soft songs, fast songs, sad songs, love songs, and for some reason they don't translate into English by whatever magic is in the land, and all he can hear is the beat, beat, beat. He sees Silver talking excitedly to the Chief, the larger man’s head falling back with a booming laugh, smacking Silver so hard on the shoulder his knees buckle. Children keep approaching Flint to show him their toys and flowers, and their parents stop trying to wrangle them in when it's clear he doesn't mind. He drinks some more. He helps a group of older, burly men rotate some strange beast over a spit. He doesn't know what it is, but it tastes good if you glaze it the way you can a pig. He doesn't see Tzekel-Kan anywhere. He finds the two warriors from before, the one he’d injured and his friend, and perhaps it's unwise, given their ruse, but Flint apologizes. The snarling warrior, no longer snarling, shows off her dagger, and they discuss the benefits of long versus short blades. The other one lets Flint try on his bear skin, but refuses when Flint offers him his crown. He likes the bear skin, feels _way_ more covered in it, but eventually has to give it back. He eats some brightly colored fruits and breads, and drinks some more.

He has to sit down after awhile, a little overwhelmed. Not that sitting is much more comfortable. Flint has never, in his entire life, had to deal with this problem: his bare thighs sticking to the bottom of his chair.

He shifts, trying to pull the skirt he’s wearing down as far as he can get it without anyone noticing. His bare back also sticks to the seat. The heat of the night is oppressive, as are the many bonfires illuminating the camp and the crush of people around, and that and all the drink he’s had are enough to cover him in a thin sheen of sweat. It itches under the collar, the gold cuffs.

But someone hands him another goblet of sweet wine, and he has to admit, he feels pretty nice. Wandering around had been good, distracting. He hadn't really been able to _think_ about what he’s doing. The music is loud and rhythmic, unlike anything he’s ever heard before, which helps him not focus on anything either. People keep coming up to him to shake his hand and praise him. Others are sitting with him now, telling him about their lives, or just being near while they talk with each other. It’s nice. His vision is only swimming a little bit, so he takes another sip of his drink.

“You know, I _love_ daytime,” says the girl on his left. She’s got nice brown eyes and jagged tattoos like lightning bolts all up and down her arms. She’s sitting very close to him, refilling his cup whenever he takes a sip. “It’s definitely my favorite time.”

“Yeah?” Flint says. “Me too. All that -- sun. Blue. Clouds you can see. Et cetera.”

He hasn’t spoken to Silver for a bit, but he can see him from his perch on what can only be called a throne. He’s spent most of the feast dancing, with old women, with young children, and everyone in between. Flint hadn’t pegged Silver as a dancer; it required some measure of fondness for people, something of which he had never witnessed Silver display. But perhaps that was because the kinds of people they had been around before weren’t the kinds of people you could be fond of. These people are nice.

The way Silver dances with them. That’s nice, too.

“You’re my favorite of all the Gods,” the girl says lowly, leaning forward. “I worship you _so hard._ ” 

“Really?” Flint smiles at her. “Thanks for that.”

Then he says, “Whoa!” The girl had slid her hand all the way his skirt.

“I can get on my knees and worship you right now,” she says, stroking the crease of his thigh, “my _Lord_.”

“Um.” When had his voice become so high? He grabs her wrist and, with more force that he expects to need, removes her hand from his leg. “No. No, you can’t. _We_ can’t. Cannot. Because….it’s night. Can’t worship me, the day, the Day God, at night, can you? Silver is the Night God. Maybe you should go worship him.

Then he says, “No, don’t do that either.”

The girl cocks her head at him. “Is this one of those things where you can only lie with me in the form of, like, a bear, or a waterfall or something?” She wiggles her eyebrows, leaning in again. “Because I’m _not_ saying I’m _not_ interested.”

“No. Yes!” He’s still holding her wrist, and when he realizes that might hinder her getting away from him, he lets go as though burned. “I can only… lie with you, alone. In your room. In your dreams! Since it’s night time, not the day time. I can… come to you in your dreams. So. You should just….go to bed. Alone. It’s very late.”

The girl frowns, but she’s finally backing away. “You’re going to come in me in my dreams?” she asks. “And that will produce your heir?”

“Come in -- oh, Jesus. Fuck. Maybe? I don’t… I’m not a -- father. Yet, so. Maybe let’s try it and in nine months, we’ll see? Go to sleep. Bye.” Flint gets up and leaves.

He interrupts Silver’s dancing by falling onto him. Silver catches him easily, an arm going around his shoulders, and doesn't even miss a step. He pulls them off the dance floor, laughing at everyone calling after them.

They find a quiet couch beneath some tall palm trees, and they fall as one awkward, slow animal, breathing heavily.

“I don't fucking believe it,” Silver says. His head is against the back of the couch, looking up at the trees. “The fucking coconuts here are gold.” He looks at Flint. “So. How’s it going?”

“Terrible,” Flint says, even though he has to hide his smile behind his glass of wine. “I’ve never been so aware of my own balls in my entire fucking life.”

Silver blinks at him. He keeps blinking.

“You look like you need a drink,” Flint says. He's feeling magnanimous, despite his balls, and holds out his own.

Silver takes it like a lifeline, gripping Flint’s hand like he might pull away. He downs it in one go, his eyes never leaving Flint’s.

Flint smiles again, and has nothing to hide it. “Feeling better?”

“Feeling _something_ ,” Silver mutters. His eyes moves so quickly over Flint’s face it makes Flint dizzy. “Think I need another one. Or. Five.”

Flint can't feel his lips anymore but he thinks he might be grinning. He tugs on his own beard, like that might pull the corners of his mouth down. He doesn't know why he says, “Hey, look. You were right.”

“About what?”

He leans forward, as though he doesn't want someone (perhaps his own self) to hear. “We _are_ friends by now.”

Silver’s eyes are wide and nice. He looks as unsure as he did when he first suggested they might be friends. Like he doesn't know what being friends with Flint _means_ , anymore than being his enemy. Flint doesn't know either.

But apparently it means more wine. “Drink,” Silver says, and clumsily gets to his feet. He uses Flint as leverage, his whole hand covering Flint’s knee, some of his fingers clutching the inside of his thigh. It's only there for a second, but Flint stares at the spot long after Silver has wandered away for more wine. He stares so long that it's the last clear thing from the feast he remembers at all.

The rest spins.

 

* * *

 

Flint wakes up with a splash. He notices he’s warm before he notices he’s wet, and it takes him almost thirty seconds to take in the fact that he's naked. Which isn't _too_ bad, considering it takes him also a full minute to realize Silver is next to him.

They're back in the temple, sitting on a stone bench inside the large pool of a bathtub. It’s built into the floor, the tiles shining dully under the torches. There's a heavy fragrance in the air, the scent of lavender and mint rising in the steam. The water feels -- odd, like it's not entirely water. It makes his skin feel slippery and soft.

“Silver,” he says. And then again, this time with an elbow to the rib. “ _Silver.”_

Silver jerks up, splashing Flint in the face. “ _Hello?_  What?” Silver sees him and then, appallingly, relaxes. “Oh. You're awake.”

Finally, Flint notices that Silver is also, in fact, naked.

“What are we doing in the bath?” he asks, not looking down. More than once. Silver had removed their skirts and collars, but left on the ankle cuffs.

“After the feast, you said you wanted a wash.” Silver stretches his arms above his head, then lets them fall over the edge of the bath, one wet and warm at Flint’s back. “You only made it as far as the pillows over there, so I rolled you the rest of the way.”

“Okay,” says Flint. “And why did you get in, too?”

“Needed something to prop you up, lest you go under and drown. _Again_.”

Flint supposes that's fair. “And. Why are we both naked?”

Silver frowns. “It's a _bath,_ Captain.”

“Okay,” Flint says again. “Okay.”

They soak for awhile. Flint’s fingertips aren’t as wrinkled as he would think, so he figures they haven’t been here that long. They have gold in El Dorado, but no clocks. He doesn’t feel drunk anymore, though, and he doesn’t feel hungover. He just feels -- fine. The water is the perfect temperature, and no one is trying to kill them, and there’s more gold in the random piles of shit Silver organized today than on a beach somewhere south of here. In this moment, he’s good.

“Some party, huh?” Silver smiles at him. “And you want to know what the best thing about all this is?”

“The gold,” Flint says. It’s not even a question.

But Silver says, “Nope. Though that’s a close second.”

Flint thinks about it for a minute. Even though there’s no longer any danger of drowning, neither of them have moved much further away. They are still pressed against each other. “The prestige?” he guesses. “The glory? The crowns.” 

“All splendid things, but no.”

Flint raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Then what?”

Silver grins, his teeth sharp, curving against his lips like an El Dorado mango. “The _very_ best thing about all this,” he says, “is that fucking Dufresne is probably dead by now.”

It’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to Flint. The way Silver throws his head back and laughs is the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

Flint cups Silver’s cheek, pulls him over and kisses him. Silver is still laughing, so Flint slides his tongue right inside.

Okay. Maybe he’s still a bit drunk.

Silver doesn’t even hesitate. He’s instantly sucking on Flint’s tongue, laugh spilling into a desperate moan without pause, like silk through someone’s fingers. His hands wander, carding through Flint’s hair, down his back, and up again. He can’t seem to keep still.

The angle starts to hurt Flint’s neck, though, so he doesn’t resist Silver tugging him into his lap. He feels like maybe they missed a few steps, somewhere along the way. Like this time last week, he’d been just itching to throw Silver overboard, and today he’s grinding his semi-hard cock into Silver’s smooth, warm stomach -- and it all happened in a blink of an eye. The same man he’d wanted to kill less than a fortnight ago is now dragging his lips across his cheek and whispering wetly into his ear, “ _Finally._ ”

It had seemed like he and Miranda had danced around each other for decades before she showed up at his door. It had seemed like the duration of a whole simple life from the moment he met Thomas to the moment Thomas had kissed him, and in so many ways, that is how it really was. He supposes that had been the London society, clinging even to them. Out here, in this life, in the water, in the heat, in the trees, in the sand, in the _shit_ \-- life comes and goes. It moves too fast for manners. If you want, you take. Flint wants.

And the way Silver is rutting up against him, sucking on his earlobe, and hissing, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to fuck you on a pile of gold _all day”_ \-- Silver is taking.  

Flint groans, biting down on Silver’s neck. He has enough sense not to leave a mark and to say, “You’re not fucking me on a pile of gold.” But that’s all the sense he’s got.

Silver just hums, cradling his ass. All he says is, “We’ll see.”

Flint pulls back. He wants to make sure Silver is as sober as (he thinks) he is. Silver looks wild and eager, awake, but there’s something else in his eyes, something familiar. Not something he’s seen directed at him, though. Something he’s felt.

“Have you ever been with a man before?’ he asks.

Silver pauses a second too long. “Sure.”

Flint raises his eyebrows. He also rotates his hip, just enough for Silver to bite his bottom lip and arch into him. Flint smirks, eyes on Silver’s teeth. “Really?” he asks. “Never?”

Silver huffs. Now he just looks wild, eager, and embarrassed. “It’s not for lack of trying! You know how it is.” He leans back against the side of the tub, not looking at Flint. “You catch eyes with a man across a crowded tavern, he’s not interested, he beats the shit out of you in an alley for assuming. Or you catch someone else’s eye, he’s not your type so you politely decline, he beats the shit out of you in an alley for the slight. Eventually, you learn to avoid eyes altogether.”

Flint doesn’t say anything. He runs his fingers along both sides of Silver’s jaw, stroking the hairs there, before cupping Silver’s ears and forcing his face back down. “You are constantly watching my eyes,” he says.

“Well, I’m only _human,_ Captain,” Silver says, “despite the rumors.”

Then he adds, “Also there are plenty of times when I was watching your arse, too.” He gives it an encouraging squeeze.

But Flint can’t stop touching his face. “So, you’ve never had a man in your mouth, either?”

Wordlessly, eyes black, Silver shakes his head.

He drags his thumb over Silver’s lips. “That no man has fucked your face before is a crime against God.”

Silver’s mouth falls open behind Flint’s fingers. He can feel the shuddering intake of breath. He can feel against the swirls of his skin Silver saying, “I’m sure we can fix that.”

Flint hums. He brings his chest flushed against Silver’s, still stroking his lips, his cheekbone, his chin. “I did promise I’d teach you something someday,” he says. “Would you like me to teach you how to love sucking cock?”

And Silver breathes, “ _Yes._ ”

Flint kisses him again, even though it’s a little counterproductive. Silver doesn’t seem to mind, reaching between them to graze along the length of Flint’s cock. He reels back at the touch, gasping. The fragrance in the air, the warmth, the gold, Silver skimming inside his thighs -- all of it working to make Flint feel light-headed, shivery heat flooding his whole body. He doesn’t think he could move right now if he wanted to.

So he brings his hand back up to Silver’s mouth, placing two fingers on his bottom lip, like he’s shushing him. Which is not what he wants at all, he _needs_ to hear Silver. He supposes he’ll just have to include that in the lesson.

He says, in as stern a voice as he can muster, “Sucking cock can be one of the most pleasurable acts one can perform, Mr. Silver, if done properly. I’m sure you’ve had your own sucked in the past, yes?” He grips Silver’s cock with his other hand. “You’ve slid this pretty pink cock into plenty of wet and willing holes before, I’d imagine.”

Silver nods, almost frantic in his eagerness to answer. Flint squeezes his cock in acknowledgement, and Silver’s mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“If you’ve ever had your cock sucked, and believed _you_ were in control the entire time, you were not getting it done _right_.” He leans into Silver’s ear, so he can murmur, “The cocksucker _always_ has the power. He makes you weak, makes you tremble, makes you under his mercy. So if you want to suck _my_ cock _properly_ , you must be in complete control. Understand?”

Silver’s holding onto Flint’s arm for dear life, flushed and lost and they haven’t even _started_. He nods again.

“Good,” says Flint, not missing the way Silver shivers at that. He adds another finger, so three rest against Silver’s lips. “The first thing you do, once you have a cock before you, is to get that first taste. Just a quick lick at the slit. This may not do much for the other person, it’s more of just a tease. This is for _you_. That first taste of come is vital, so you mustn’t forget it.” Flint waits.

Neither of them move. Silver’s eyebrows twitch in confusion for a second, but Flint sees the moment he figures it out. And he _feels_ it, in the next moment -- feels the wet, rough swipe of Silver’s tongue against his fingertips, quick as lightning.

Flint hums, rubbing against him. “ _Perfect_. You got that taste, Silver? That first taste of my come?”

Silver moans, mouths a silent _yes_ against Flint’s as he licks the tips eagerly.

Flint pulls them back a fraction, eliciting another moan from Silver. “Easy,” he says. “Just a quick taste. Remember your objective. You need to have me utterly at your whim. You can do that, right?”

“Yes,” says Silver, his voice hoarse and low. “Yes, I can do that. _Please_ , let me show you.”

Before Flint can say anything else, Silver pulls his hand back to his mouth. He presses open, sucking kisses along the inside of his fingers, lapping at the space in between them, nibbling on the creases of his joints. He even goes lower, lapping at his palm.

Flint shivers uncontrollably. “ _Yes_ , Silver, let me hear you.” And he shivers again when Silver moans loud and long into his skin. He had honestly thought this would just be a way to tease Silver before getting him on his cock for real, but he might not even need the real thing now. Silver’s rough pink tongue running over the soft edges of Flint’s calluses is already making the hot coil loosen in his belly. He grinds his cock against Silver’s, grabbing them both with his free hand. He’s thankful he had the forethought to let Silver suck on his left hand, so that he can hold their cocks with practiced ease. Silver is thrusting up too, slower and out of sync with Flint, like his own release is an afterthought. The water and whatever kind of soap and oils were in it, makes Flint’s whole body feel slick and open and overheated.

Silver moans against this palm again, and Flint feels it in his balls. He’s able to pull his hand back enough so his fingers are once again at Silver’s lip, and somehow he manages to say, “Now suck.”

Silver does. He’s at least familiar with this part, albeit from the other end. He moves down Flint’s fingers too fast, though, lips gripping tightly around him. Flint can feel his tongue undulating under his fingers as he attempts to swallow down past the middle knuckle, can see Silver’s throat working hard to try and adjust to it.

“Easy,” Flint says again, holding his hand still. “You’re so _eager._ Take your time, this is for you. Don’t choke on me.”

Silver nods, moans, eyes wet and dazed. He pulls up a little so it’s just Flint’s fingertips he’s sucking on. With delicate care, he grazes his teeth gently at the underside of his fingers.

Flint jerks up, hisses, “Fuck!” And Silver smiles around him as he starts to move down again, slower, steadily, maddening.

Flint leans forward, resting his forehead against Silver’s temple so he can still watch Silver’s mouth. His own labored pants slide sweetly against Silver’s harsh inhales through his nose. His hips move faster, although Silver’s pace never waivers. They rut against each other at their own needs, the hand on their cocks not doing much else besides keeping them together. Silver is still holding Flint’s hand in his mouth and has started bobbing up and down slowly, going so far down for Flint to stroke the back of his tongue.

“That’s it, Silver,” he says soothingly when Silver is able to hold there with Flint’s fingers almost all the way in his mouth without gagging. “That’s perfect, _fuck_ , you’re doing so _well._ You’re such a beautiful cocksucker, I knew you would be.” Silver’s teeth graze at him again, playfully offended, but it only makes Flint keen again. He groans, pressing his own teeth against Silver’s cheekbone a little too hard to try and muffle it. “That’s it, Silver, make me _yours_. Make me come, make me weak, make me at your _mercy_.”

Silver pulls off his fingers with an obscene sound. With the same look of wonder he’s only shown a city of gold, he says, “You are without a doubt the strangest person I have ever met.”

It’s the sound of his voice, rough and smooth at the same time, and the way he immediately swallows Flint’s fingers down again in a tight suction, that has Flint coming. His hips stutter against Silver’s, his thighs aching at the stretch of being across Silver’s lap. His knees are digging uncomfortably into the stone bench but he doesn’t _care_. For the last ten years, Flint has felt wild and uncontained, the way an injured animal is. Violent and unrepentant, capable of doing _anything_ in a mindless state of fear and anger. But now, he feels wild and uncontained, the way an ocean is. The way an old god is. The kind of wildness that only comes from peace of mind, however momentary.

He’s always maintained that he’s followed Thomas’s advice, that he’s lives without shame. He feels no shame for who he was, and who he is. But here, leaning hard against Silver, fingers wet, heart racing, a comforting hand running over his spine, he sees the shame he’s carried all this time. Shame of who he _could_ be: someone who can feel good again.

He withdraws his fingers and kisses Silver, the way he might chase the taste of his own come on Silver’s tongue. It isn’t there, of course, but God, he needs it.

Silver, having been made to be silent for so long, breaks away to look down and grab his own cock, still red and aching against Flint’s. “So, I assume we’ll need a practical demonstration as well,” he says, eyes hungrily on Flint’s cock. Flint agrees, but he doesn’t feel like he’s finished his lesson just yet.

Having gotten his breath back, he shoves his hands under Silver’s arms and hauls him up. Silver is so surprised by the movement he goes easily, sliding out from under Flint, bare ass resting on the side of the bathtub. He’s not able to question it, though, because Flint immediately swallows his cock down. He tastes of mint and lavender.

“Oh, fuck!” Silver cries out, bowing down over Flint’s head. He grips his hair tight with wet hands, nails digging in as Flint sucks and keeps sucking. He holds Silver’s hips in place while he moves his head up and down, savoring the thick weight reaching all the way to the back of throat. Not that he wouldn’t enjoy it, but face fucking requires an entirely different lesson altogether that he’ll have to save for later.

Silver comes pretty quickly anyway, scratching at Flint’s scalp and back. Flint is still swallowing it all down, the tip of Silver’s cock held tightly between his lips, but Silver collapses back on the tile, breathing hard, stomach muscles twitching as Flint sucks him dry. His feet are still dangling in the water.

Flint lets the cock slip from his mouth, but doesn’t move much further than that. He rests against Silver’s knee, trying to catch his breath. He hasn’t sucked a cock that fast in a long time. The last thing he wants right now is the hiccups.

There’s so much that should be on his mind right now, but none of it holds. He watches the slick water drip from the hairs on Silver’s leg, idly wondering how the bath hadn’t cooled at all in the evening air, when Silver says, “You didn’t have the first taste.”

Flint looks up. He hadn’t realized Silver’s hand is still in Flint’s hair, slightly stroking him. His other hand is cushioned behind his head.

“You said the first taste was important,” Silver reminds him, a small, nervous smile on his face.

“I’m a good teacher, but I’ve always been a terrible student,” Flint says, which is true. He’d always been too eager to learn to follow any prescribed lesson plan. He slides up Silver’s body, lying down half on top of him. He trails his fingers -- the same ones Silver had sucked on -- up Silver’s side, from the sharp jut of his hip to where the trail of hair started beneath his arm. Up close, he can see the tiles have thin ribbons of gold, like marble. He cups Silver’s cheek again, pulls his face close.

“The first one is to tease,” he says, licking at the corner of Silver’s mouth. “The last one is to be savored.”

Silver kisses him again, chasing after the taste.

 

* * *

 

They’re awoken at dawn by the priest for the morning prayer ritual. This is, by far, the worst way to spend the morning after.

They’d had the sense to use their skirts to towel off last night, and though they’d collapsed in a tangle on the mountains of pillows after the bath, they must have fallen apart in their sleep, because Tzekel-Kan doesn’t seem fazed at all by them. He’s too excited, bouncing on his heels, eager to begin the ritual.

Flint has never fostered any fondness for devout men, but all the ones he’d known before had all been of the Judeo-Christian sort. It’s a slight comfort to know that religious men everywhere were just as annoying, even the Pagan kind.

They ask for a few minutes alone -- mostly so Silver can do up Flint’s skirt for him again -- before they’re ushered onto a back balcony they hadn’t noticed before.

“The Gods have awoken!” Tzekel-Kan shouts. The people of El Dorado are gathered down below, surrounded a large, ominous whirlpool at the base of the temple. They cheer at the sight of Flint and Silver. Not one of them seem slightly hungover, the bastards.

With sudden horror, Flint realizes they’ve brought the fucking horse to stand with them. He hasn’t seen it since yesterday at the feast, drinking wine from someone’s cup. It’s had a wash, at least, and now has a garland that looks far too similar to their crown. It doesn’t look pleased to see Flint anymore than Flint is.

Flint waves half-heartedly to the people down below, trying to stifle his yawn. Silver is close enough that their arms keep brushing. He’s scratching at his bare belly, blinking sleepily at the crowd. It’s not endearing at all.

Tzekel-Kan is waving his hands dramatically, and Flint is preparing for another long-winded prayer. Flint doesn’t like the man much, but he has to admit, he likes the look of his skull mask. It would be very effective on a raid, more so than the turban.

“The Gods deserve a proper tribute!” Tzekel-Kan proclaims. A few men come forward, carrying a tray ladened with a heavy-looking sack adorned with flowers and jewels. Silver perks up beside him.

“The beginning of a new era,” Tzekel-Kan continues. Green, ghoulish smoke begins to cover the sack, scattering the flowers. The people of El Dorado look uncharacteristically somber. “The dawning of a new age -- demands -- _sacrifice_.”

Truthfully, Flint actually agrees with that. But he’s more inclined to disagree with religion in any aspect, and he isn’t pleased at all when Tzekel-Kan waves his hand and the ties on the sack fall away, revealing a dazed old man kneeling on the tray. His hands are tied in front, like a prayer.

Silver discreetly steps on his foot.

Flint glances at him out the corner of his eye. He looks obviously distressed. Flint raises an eyebrow and gives him half a shrug, hoping that enough to convey that no, he doesn’t like what’s about to happen, but they are playing with fire here. And he’d rather this old man die than them.

Tzekel-Kan raises his hand, and like a marionette the old man stumbles towards the edge of the balcony. The whirlpool roars down below. Tzekel-Kan is handed a spiked club and he lifts it up over the old man’s head, preparing to strike.

“Stop,”  Silver says.

Flint manages to stifle his groan, but just barely.

Silver marches over to Tzekel-Kan, not looking at Flint, who has no choice but to follow anyway. He’s going to let Silver try and wriggle out of this one, though, since yesterday he had to deal with the fucking snake.

“May I ask, Tzekel-Kan,” Silver says, sounding too genial. “What is the point of this sacrifice?”

Tzekel-Kan blinks at him. “Um.”

“To show your appreciation, I know,” Silver answers for him. “To show your reverence, your gratitude at all we provide, for when the Gods are far from your eyes. A momentous act, such as this one, is most assured to get our attention. But we are here now, my priest. We stand before you.”

“Oh.” Tzekel-Kan thinks about that. “You...wish to do the honor yourself, my Lord?” He hands the club to Silver, who automatically passes it to Flint.

Great. Now Flint has to kill some old man.

But Silver just sighs, disappointed. Flint doesn’t miss the way Tzekel-Kan’s face falls. Silver puts a hand on Tzekel-Kan’s arm. “May we speak privately for a moment?”

It’s not a question. Gods don’t really ask for permission. Silver leads the priest away, which breaks whatever spell Tzekel-Kan has on the old man, and Flint has to catch him before he falls off the balcony anyway. He unties the man’s hands, signals to some of the nearby soldiers to take him away from the edge. The Chief comes to stand by Flint, confused but not unhappy.

They watch in silence as Silver and Tzekel-Kan speak. Their heads are bowed together, Silver smiling but looking quite serious, Tzekel-Kan looking distraught and earnest, nodding his head feverently. Silver claps a hand on his shoulder, says something that produces a weak smile from the other man, and takes a step back. Tzekel-Kan grabs his hand before he can pull it completely away and kisses the back of it, bowing low. The act doesn’t even seem to faze Silver. He just accepts it like that’s what the man is _supposed_ to do.

Tzekel-Kan turns to everyone. Without raising his voice again so the other people below might hear, he says, “It seems I have misread the Heavens. Excuse me.” He shoots Silver one last loving look and then disappears.

Silver comes back over. He smiles widely at Flint and says, “All sorted.”

Flint opens his mouth what the _fuck_ , but is interrupted by the Chief.

“My Lords.” He bows as well. “May the people of El Dorado offer you _our_ tribute.” Behind him, a large group of beautiful women approach, carrying trays piled high with mountains and mountains of gold.

“Does this please you, my Lords?”

Flint had thought he’d be over the appeal of all that gold, and he had, when it’s hanging from a tree or lining a damn chamber pot. But it’s the feeling of this being _offered_ , of all this being given _freely_ to him, after everything he suffered to get to this point, that’s threatening to overwhelm him.

“Yeah,” says Silver, voice cracking a little. “We’re pleased.”

“The Gods have chosen!” the Chief yells. Everyone cheers. “To Xiobalba?”

“Yes,” says Flint.

“No,” says Silver.

The look at each other. “Oh?” Silver asks him pointedly. “You want to give the tribute to _Xiobalba_ , the _spirit_ world?” He tilts his head casually to the swirling vortex of watery death below them.

“Oh.” Damn Silver and his fucking perfect memory. “No. Let’s….have a chance to….bask in this tribute.”

The Chief frowns. “Bask?”

“For a bit,” Silver assures.

“So.” The Chief gestures for the women to go put the gold back in the temple. “You don’t want _any_ offering to Xiobalba?” 

Flint scratches at his beard, looking around for inspiration. When his eyes land on the horse, he smiles.

“I have an idea.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you tried to sacrifice the horse.” Silver’s arms are folded in a way that Flint supposes is meant to highlight his frustration, but honestly, it just emphasizes his nipples. “That horse is my _friend._ ”

They are riding in a litter through the city. Flint thinks they’re getting a tour of the city, but he’s shut the curtains, so he can't be sure. He does know he's becoming quite fond of lying on pillows. He lies back on a pile, the silk soothing on his naked back, and places his feet in Silver’s lap.

“Fuck that horse,” he says. “I can’t believe you let them throw half our gold in a fucking river over a horse. _Our_ gold.”

“What --” Silver’s voice cracks at the memory, and he has to clear his throat and start over. “What choice did I have? That horse is a good omen.” Despite his anger, he starts massaging Flint’s foot, digging his thumbs into the sole hard and perfect. “Besides, we have plenty still. We’re richer than the king of England, now. God, we could _buy_ England.”

Flint feels bliss racing from Silver’s fingers up his entire body. “Fuck England. Going to buy Nassau.”

Silver stops moving. “Oh,” he says. “You’re….wanting to go back?”

“I have a plan. The Urca gold was just how I was going to fund that plan. Nothing’s changed. I mean, _some_ things have changed, but…” He tries for casual when he asks, “Where are you going to go?”

Silver shrugs, but starts massaging his foot again. He’s not looking at Flint, though. “Hadn’t had a chance to think about it,” he says. “I had a plan before, for when I got my share of the Urca. But. As you said, this changed some things.”

“....This?”

“This….much,” Silver says, and then quickly adds, “Of the gold, I mean. The share I was owed before would have been enough for me to disappear. To escape the toil of my old life, the work, the wages, the hunger. You.”

Flint stiffens at that, but Silver holds his ankle tight so he can’t pull away.

“I wanted freedom,” he continues, and now he’s looking right at Flint. “I thought freedom meant anonymity. But now that I’ve had that first…. _taste_ of... recognition, I’m not sure my interests are the same anymore. This much wealth offers a different kind of freedom. One I’d never even considered to be a possibility before. But one I’m willing to explore.” He runs his hands over the gold cuffs, up Flint’s calves. “You could say I’m almost eager to, in fact.”

Flint watches him, looking for a lie, and when doesn’t see it, he snorts. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

“Although, I have no idea how the fuck we’re getting anywhere, especially with all this gold.”

But Flint’s already thinking of that. He’s thinking of making their way back to Nassau and arriving at dawn, the two of them victorious, heavy with gold and righteousness. He may not be divine, but the people of Nassau would come to see him -- _them_ \-- as Kings soon enough. And from then, it’ll be all too easy to get the rest of the world to its knees.

“Don’t worry about it,” Flint says, running his foot on Silver’s thigh, pushing at the edge of his skirt. “It’s not like there’s more than one way to get there.” 

 

* * *

 

“A boat?”

The Chief’s home is filled with chairs and couches and, surprisingly, toys. He hadn’t introduced any wife or children, but Flint gets the impression this space might be open to anyone in El Dorado. He’s not sure what to make of a leader who knows such generosity. He’s read the stories of the Gods they’re meant to be, and if this is what they believe, they should know the Gods aren’t so worthy and deserving to be worshipped by a man like Chief Tannabok.

Of course, he doesn’t treat them with worship. He treats them like friends, which Flint is just as unused to.

“Yes, unfortunately,” says Silver apologetically. “We hate to be ascending so soon, but it can’t be helped.”

The Chief frowns. “We expected you to be staying with us for the next thousand years.”

“Well, you know what they say. Man makes plans.” Silver laughs.

Flint elbows his side. “This is actually one of the reasons why we came,” he explains to the the Chief.

“One of the reasons you came is to leave?”

“Yes.” Silver isn’t laughing anymore, leaning forward. Flint watches him carefully. He seems so _earnest_ , when Flint knows he isn’t being so, and he finds himself looking for the tells. He needs to be able to see them when Silver talks to him. “I was just speaking with Tzekel-Kan about this, this morning at the ritual. I didn’t want to embarrass him, poor man. He’s a very sensitive sort, you know?”

The Chief looks even more doubtful. “Uh. No.”

“These things happen,” Silver goes on. “We haven’t been to El Dorado for a thousand years. So the things we said back then get passed down, generation to generation, and of course the meaning gets lost in translation. Everything gets diluted. So we come down, try to deliver the truth as best we can, and hope in the next thousand years it hasn’t gotten so muddied again.”

“So,” says the Chief, “if you’re here to teach us these things again, why are you leaving so soon?”

“Because we have a job to do still,” Flint says. “How long can the sun shine without me there each morning to light it?”

They had rehearsed this a little on the way over, and he knows they’re just supposed to stay on the topic of the boat, but his eyes catch sight of the golden rocking horse by the window, scuffed from many uses, and his mouth starts to move before he really thinks about it.

“We like it here. Too much,” Flint says, not looking at Silver. “We can…. _be_ here, in a way we can’t be in -- the sky. Gods, as you know, are inherently selfish. But you need us up there to live, and we need you to live so you can pray. So we must love you enough to go back to our duties, and you must love us enough to let us go. It’s a test, you see.” He can feel Silver looking at him, but he does not look back.

The Chief leans back in his chair. He doesn’t say anything for a long while. When he speaks, he surprises Flint. “You’re not like the stories we tell. Neither of you are.”

Flint swallows. He knows this. The stories are violent and cruel and without hope, all things he knows he has the capacity to be, but still. He is not a God. “No?”

“In the stories, you fight each other.” The Chief smiles lightly, eyeing the two of them. “You’re constantly warring for dominion over the sky. Often with several casualties.”

“See?” says Silver, and he sounds strange, but Flint still is not looking. “Miscommunication. We’re equals in the sky, Chief. Once upon a time, we were fighting. But eventually, somehow, we just began to chase after each other instead. But then, that’s the thing about Gods and the stories of -- us. Things never truly begin or truly end. They always just are. So really, we’ve always been chasing after each other.”

“And here…” the Chief says slowly, still smiling placidly, “you’ve finally caught each other. But yet, you still must go.”

“Like I said.” Flint looks down at his hands. He hadn’t realized he’d been rubbing the same fingers from last night, thumb tracing the ghost of Silver’s tongue. “It’s a test.”

The Chief sighs. “Well. To build a boat large and glorious enough, it would take about a week.”

Now Flint looks at Silver, because he has no other choice. A week is far, far too long to carry on with this charade. Flint had been hoping they would be able to repurpose one they already had, but then he doesn’t suppose they do much long distance sailing here. He’d been told the river that runs through El Dorado leads right to the sea, but he’d been told this with a tone of fear and respect. It was through the river they disposed of their dead. It’s the place of spirits and demons, devils. Thinking of all the men he’d met on the water, Flint doesn’t think they’re wrong.

Silver’s eyes are dark and full of mischief, full of promise. He says, still looking at Flint, “I wonder how long it’ll take Tzekel-Kan…”

“That man wouldn’t even know which way to hang a sail,” the Chief snorts. “But for the Gods…. Three days? Perhaps it might be less, if you weren’t burdened with so much treasure.”

“Three days is good,” Silver says quickly. He stands, and so does the Chief. And so does Flint. “That will give us plenty of time to reassess your texts. Really get it right this time.”

 

* * *

 

“Three days is not good,” Flint says. “Three days is very, very bad. Silver, how the fuck are we going to keep this up for three days?”

“We’ll be fine,” Silver says from behind him. They’re back at the temple. Flint is by the entryway, looking down at El Dorado. He doesn’t know what Silver is doing. “Have --”

“If you’re going to tell me to _have faith_ ,” Flint says, “I’m pushing you down all these stairs.”

Silver doesn’t say anything.

Flint sighs. It really is an amazing sight, the blue-green waves of the treetops, the brightly colored birds swooping together in strange formations, the gold shimmering on the buildings like sunlight hitting the water. He’d never thought much about exploration, as a child. It had seemed like a pretty thankless task. Sure, there might be glory and riches and marvels at the end of the path, but more likely there just seemed to be sudden, messy deaths. It had never held his attention much before.

But now. “I suppose there is so much to see down there,” he muses. “A whole new world. Things we’ll never see again. We should savor it.”

Silver hums. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“I think we should stay up here the whole time,” says Silver. “It’s safer.”

“What the fuck are we supposed to do in here,” Flint says, turning, “for three fucking da--”

Silver is leaning on a pillar in the center of the temple. His back is to Flint, and he’s completely naked, except for the gold cuffs around his wrists and ankles. He tugs his hair over his shoulder, glancing back at Flint with one devilish eye. He shrugs. “I can think of a few things.”

Between one breath and the next, Flint is plastered to his back, wrapping his arms around his chest and pulling him close. He licks at Silver’s exposed neck, eliciting a laughing moan. “And what exactly _have_ you been thinking of, Mr. Night God?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Silver breathes, tilting his head further to the side, “of fucking you on a pile of gold.”

“You’re not fucking me on a pile of gold.”

“Why not?”

“Because I foresee my future to involve me handling gold often,” Flint says into Silver’s shoulder, “and I’d rather not have ever transaction colored by the memories of that time you fucked me on a pile of gold, and some of it got stuck in a place gold has no place being.”

Silver turns in his arms and kisses him deeply, pulling him backwards into the room with all the pillows, and the piles of gold. “I can be careful,” he says against Flint’s lips. “And I suppose I have three days to convince you otherwise.”

“Yeah, okay,” Flint says, pushing him onto the pillows. He can’t tie his skirt for shit, but he’s pretty good at taking it off. “Good luck with that.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, it only takes Silver a few hours of sweet talk to convince Flint to let him fuck him on a pile of gold.

Although, honestly, it probably would have taken less time if Silver hadn’t had a big, stupid grin on his face the whole fucking time.

No gold got stuck anywhere. Silver is, in fact, very careful.

 

* * *

 

It’s late afternoon on the second day, and Flint is lounging around. He’d dug his old trousers out from beneath a pile of ornate spoons, and somehow they are free of blood stains. He hasn’t felt this comfortable in an age. He credits the trousers for most of that comfort, although he supposes he has two days spent fucking and getting fucked to thank somewhat.

He’s found some ink, and has spent the last hour or so combing through the religious text they had read on the first day. There are many moments in his life to choose from where Flint had acted like a presumptuous asshole, but this might be the worst instance of them all: lying on a pile of silk pillows, systematically altering a culture’s entire religion. But they’d been backed into a corner here, and it’s not like he’s making any _bad_ changes. Just things he himself might want to hear from God. Like the novel idea of being nice to each other for a change. He still feels like an asshole.

He hears a cough from behind. “Lord Flint?”

He only just barely stops himself from asking _who the fuck?_ as he rises from the pillows as gracefully as he can. “Chief Tannabok. Uh, how can I help you?”

The Chief looks a little nervous. He’s not out of breath at all from the climb up the temple steps, and it’s amazing for a man his size. Flint decides it’s more El Dorado magic that doesn’t affect him. Just the air up here makes it difficult for him to breathe. “Good afternoon, my Lord. Where is Lord Silver?”

Christ. Let Silver never hear himself be called that. “He’s sleeping on the balcony. He much prefers being up at night. Obviously.” Flint prays that Silver _stays_ asleep and does not wander back inside, naked as when Flint had left him. He knows firsthand now the _mouth_ on Silver, and he’s more than likely to speak and say something incredibly filthy long before he spots the Chief in their presence. “Can I help you with something?”

The Chief idles around the temple, toying with the fringe of his belt. If Flint had to guess, he would say the Chief is stalling. “Are you enjoying your stay in El Dorado, my Lord?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“You have not made your way into the city since we spoke in my home.”

“Ah. Well. You know. God-eyes. Can see everything….on high. How is the boat coming along?”

“Very well, my Lord. Except…”

“Except?”

The Chief sighs. He walks over to the entryway, and Flint follows. “It would be better if we had more people to work on the construction. The few men we’re allowed are working themselves to the bone. They might feel more comfortable, less rushed and less likely to make a mistake, if their movements weren’t so heavily restricted.”

Flint frowns. “Restricted? What’s restricting them?”

The Chief glances over. “You are, my Lord.”

“I am,” Flint says.

“Tzekel-Kan relayed your orders to keep everyone indoors, and we’ve done our best to comply while still building a worthy ship on time. But it is difficult, especially when they see what becomes of those who aren’t following your orders.”

“My orders,” Flint says.

Flint surveys El Dorado. Yes, they’re up high, but he can’t believe he hadn’t noticed how quiet it is down there, but then he thinks this might be the first time he’s seen the sky in two days.

“I came here in the hopes that you might relax your curfew,” says the Chief, “or soften the punishments at least. It would mean a great deal to --”

“There is no curfew,” Flint says, stamping down the knowledge that he’s likely making a big mistake. “Not any longer. No more punishments. Tell your people _these_ are my orders now. Life will continue in El Dorado as it always has. Anyone who questions it can speak to me directly. Can you do that?”

The Chief’s shoulders sag with relief. “I can, my Lord. Thank you. I -- suppose there must have been another miscommunication between you and Tzekel-Kan?”

Flint wants to ask what sort of punishments have been handed out for the crime of walking around, but he knows it’ll just piss him off more. “Must have been,” he says. “I should go speak with him now. Which temple is his?”

Chief Tannabok points to a smaller building near the edge of the forest. It’s a dark looking temple, with two large stone jaguars sat in front.

“Are you to wake Lord Silver?”

“No,” says Flint. “This should only take a few moments.”

“Of course.” The Chief bows low. “Shall I arrange for your horse to be waiting for you down below?”

Flint grimaces. “Thanks, but I think I’ll walk.”

 

* * *

 

He stays behind a moment after the Chief goes. He checks on Silver, but he’s still sleeping in the shadow of the temple, and he’s honestly tempted to just forget about confronting the priest and crawling up behind him. But, as usual, his self-righteousness gets in the way of any kind of momentary happiness.

He also grabs one of the ornate daggers from the ornate-dagger pile, sticking it in a leather sheath and tucking it into the back of his trousers. He can only find one of the bicep cuffs and uses it to cover his tattoo. His boots have completely disappeared, as has the crown.

The word of his altered orders have not yet gotten out, so the streets of El Dorado are still completely deserted. It’s eerie, having only seen them filled with life before. Large birds on thin legs strut by him, towering over his head, and creatures that look like cats but move like monkeys rustle in the trees above. He can see the eyes of whole families watching him from the dark windows of their houses, but no one comes out, even when he waves. 

By the time he reaches Tzekel-Kan’s temple, he is livid. And he doesn’t knock.

Tzekel-Kan is bowed over in prayer by a large pool of green water, bright steam rising from it like it had from the old man at the ritual. The room is filled with more pools of a similar sort, and another stone jaguar, even larger than the ones outside.

Flint says, “Priest.”

Tzekel-Kan nearly falls into his mystical pool. “Lord Flint!” He scrambles to his feet. “What an unexpected pleasure! Please, come in.”

Flint misses his coat. He’s too undressed, too exposed in case of a fight. His movements feel too easily predicted like this. Not that he’s preparing for a fight, except that he’s always preparing for a fight. He steps further inside.

“I came to speak to you about my orders,” Flint says, wishing he could keep a hand on the knife at his back. “Which you’ve issued to the people of El Dorado. I’ve gone ahead and told Chief Tannabok to rescind them altogether.”

The simpering smile falls from Tzekel-Kan’s face, leaving only genuine annoyance. And _there_ is the first hint of the person he really is, behind the worshipping act. Underneath it all, Tzekel-Kan is also a presumptuous asshole. “I see,” he says. “May I speak honestly with you, my Lord?”

“Yeah,” says Flint. “That’d be great.”

“I know what Lord Silver said to me about the….dilution of your Word, having been handed down so long ago. But I think, in your utter perfection, you have forgotten how imperfect humans are.”

“No,” says Flint. “I am very familiar with this concept.”

“Then I don’t understand what I’m misinterpreting!” Tzekel-Kan comes close, _too_ close, the light from the room’s lit torches dimming with each step until all that’s illuminating the room is the unearthly green glow from the pools. The steam rising from them seems less random now. It seems to be slowly crawling right for them. “Humans are like _snakes_ , spineless and slippery.” And the steam morphs into snakes, moving faster towards Flint’s bare feet. “They are as untrustworthy as _rats_ , stealing and cheating, with _no_ remorse.” And then the snakes turn to rats, and he can feel the brush of feet against his leg. “Spinning webs of _lies_ , like ---”

“Enough!” says Flint. The conjurings vanish, although the light is still faded, and Flint realizes he’s been backed into the center of the room.

“Yes, it _is_ enough.” Tzekel-Kan smiles, grabbing a torch off a wall and coming closer. “As it is prophesied, the history of the Age of the Jaguar will be written in blood. These _people_ ,” he spits, the way a person who has never had any friends might, “will not respect you if they do not _fear_ you.”

Flint knows this. The violent, immoral criminals of Nassau feared him, and that’s how he’d earned their respect, once upon a time. He’d let them tell their stories about him, about Miranda, because fear isn’t the only way to earn respect, but it certainly is the fastest. But each story had chipped away at James McGraw, at Miranda Hamilton, at the memory of who they were, in his desperation to achieve a swift and steady vengeance. He often thinks what he might have become instead, if he’d slowed down a little.

“And you gain fear,” Flint says, “through sacrifice.”

“Yes!” Tzekel-Kan shouts. “Exactly! That’s---”

Flint sighs. It’s enough to shut Tzekel-Kan up.

“You aren’t the first man to make this argument, Priest. And you won’t be the last. After all, you are, as you say, imperfect.”

Tzekel-Kan flushes angrily. “My Lord--”

“A sacrifice is only a sacrifice when you give up something meaningful to you.” Flint steps closer, letting the fire of the torch light his eyes. “The worth of the deed is only inherent in what is lost. To get something you need, you must lose something you want. When you give up _who_ you _are_ in order to be what you _must_ become. When you give up everything, for the benefit of others -- that is a sacrifice. Men in power rarely, if ever, do it right. They kill those weaker than them and claim it is a sacrifice, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. Tell me, Tzekel-Kan, when have you ever truly sacrificed yourself for _me?_ ”

Tzekel-Kan gapes at him, face white. His eyes travel all over Flint, struggling to speak, but then his eyes stop on Flint’s throat, frozen.

“Well?” Flint pushes, stepping closer to the light.

“There,” Tzekel-Kan breathes. “On your neck…” The light in his eyes is different from the fire. It’s bright and green and deadly.

Flint touches where he is looking, and feels a light sting. Distantly, he remembers Silver latches on there with all his teeth while riding him the second -- or was it the third? -- time they’d attempted to take a proper bath.

“I knew it. _I knew it._ Gods don’t _bruise_ .” Quick as lightning, he’s holding his own ceremonial dagger and dragging it across Flint’s forearm. Flint jerks back but not before blood wells up along the cut. “Gods don’t _bleed_.”

If Tzekel-Kan hadn’t been trying to kill him, Flint would have marveled at the audacity, at the bravery. Not many men would have the courage to strike someone they thought might be their God. It’s the kind of move Flint would pull himself, if he had the capacity for such belief.

“I suspected as much from the day of the ritual,” Tzekel-Kan hisses. The pools seem to grow brighter, the steam turning into acrid smoke. The stone floor begins to shake. No, not the floor. _The jaguar_. “I have spent my whole _life_ studying y-- the _Gods_. I _know_ what they want. Now is the Age of the Jaguar, and you have proven to me once and for all that it is my duty to bring it forth.”

Flint holds a placating hand out. “Listen, Priest, this has all been --” He interrupts himself to punch Tzekel-Kan in the face. The green smoke stops moving as Flint leaps on him, grabbing his knife from its sheath. Tzekel-Kan is fast though, and he knocks it out of his hand, rolling them over and over until Flint’s on his back, head dangerously close to one of the green pools.

Fortunately, Tzekel-Kan’s own blade had gone flying in the scuffle. Unfortunately, he had both hands around Flint’s neck, and the smoke begins to cover them once more.

“I understand _everything_ now,” Tzekel-Kan gasps, squeezing tight on Flint’s throat. “This was a _test_ , to prove to the Gods how unwavering my faith is! You were sent here to test me, and you are to be the first sacrifice to the Jaguar!”

Flint’s having trouble focusing on whatever Tzekel-Kan is saying. He’s scratching at his hands, punching at his ribs, trying to buck him off, but one should never underestimate the upper body strength of the maniacally devout. Especially one with magic. His vision starts to shimmer a little, which is maybe why the stone jaguar has stopped shaking and is now _rising_ , solid mouth opening to roar with Tzekel-Kan’s shout, and taking one step forward.

Then, Tzekel-Kan freezes, his hands suddenly going slack. He starts to fall forward, and Flint’s able to get his hands up and shove him to the side. He lies there, watching as the stone jaguar topples over, collapsing in a pile of rubble that narrowly misses a very alarmed Silver.

Flint sits up, struggling to catch his breath without breathing in any of the noxious smoke that’s slowly dissipating in the room. He coughs, which prompts Silver to speak.

“Do you remember my _exact_ words, or did I fuck it out of you, alone with any _sense_ you might have left in your gorgeous fucking head?” He grabs Flint’s forearm, careless of the cut, and hauls him up, roughly checking him over. Flint coughs on him. “Did I not _just_ say the other day it’d be safer to stay in our temple? What, had it been too long since you’ve nearly been beaten to death? Needed a quick fix?”

Flint coughs again. “Well. I mean. It has.”

Silver kisses him. He’s still feeling light-headed from the strangulation, and this isn’t helping at all, but it gives him a great excuse to cling to Silver.

“You’re an idiot,” Silver says, resting his forehead against Flint’s. “I could have done it for you. Did you forget that Tzekel-Kan was _clearly_ a lunatic? He wanted to kill someone the other day!”

“That’s a bit rich,” Flint says, “since you actually did just killed someone.”

They both look over at Tzekel-Kan’s corpse, his own ceremonial dagger sticking out of his spine. It’s the best he’s ever looked.

“You also saw the stone jaguar moving around, right?” Flint asks.

“Oh, is that what a jaguar is?” Silver asks. “I thought it was just a big cat.” At Flint’s look, he says, “What? In Whitechapel, animals are strictly categorized as ‘horse’ and _‘not_ horse.’ Speaking of which, you have a certain _someone_ to thank for me getting here so quickly, once I’d realized you’d gone.”

Milling around the entrance is the fucking bastard horse, eyeing the scene, from the dead body to Flint to the glowing green pools of evil, with evident distaste. It still has on its green-feathered garland.

“No,” says Flint. “I don’t.”

He untangles himself from Silver, stepping over to Tzekel-Kan’s body. He prods it with his foot to make sure he’s actually dead, and also for fun.

“He was on to us, I guess?” Silver asks, going over to remove the knife. It’s a nice knife. “Prick.”

“It’s a good thing my cocksucking lessons are more effective than your conning lessons,” Flint says.

“Good for who?”

“Me, I guess.” He nudges Tzekel-Kan one more time, and his hand falls into the glowing water. It starts to sizzle, skin melting away at the contact. “Christ. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

Together, they watch as the water burns Tzekel-Kan’s hand to nothingness, his wrist a blistered, perfectly cauterized stump. The air smells strongly of otherworldly magic and burning flesh.

Silver grins at him. “Hey,” he says. “Things are looking up!”

 

* * *

 

The christening -- for lack of a better word -- of the ship goes off without a hitch. After being trapped indoors for two days, the people of El Dorado decided the only thing to do to send off the Gods is to throw another party.

The only one to remark on Tzekel-Kan’s absence is Chief Tannabok.

“Unfortunately,” Silver says, hand on his shoulder, “the High Priest could not reconcile his differences with the old ways and the new.” They’re standing in the middle of a crowd of dancing people, flowers falling through the air. “He took it very hard.”

“I’m sure,” says the Chief. He’s holding a small child in his arms. Flint can’t tell if they’re a boy or girl, but he can tell they’re making a mess with a mango. The Chief looks highly amused by the idea of Tzekel-Kan in pain. “Where is he now?”

Silver sighs deeply. “He got quite upset, near the end. Couldn’t handle it. He raged against us, so we. Uh, we…”

“Ate him,” says Flint.

He can feel Silver start to look at him, and stop.

The Chief and the child blink at them. “Oh.”

“Y...es,” says Silver. “We. Ate him. Because….that’s the sort of things we Gods….do.”

“....Right.” The Chief sets the child down on the ground, trying to stop the tears that are starting to fall. Silver uses the distraction to glare at Flint. Flint just shrugs.

“That’s certainly -- unfortunate,” the Chief says. “He was a very solitary man. Traditionally, the ancient texts are studied and followed through by several priests, but when he reached his position, he dismissed the others.”

“Well, when you find his replacement, have them look through these.” Flint hands him the two sacred texts filled with his addendums. “And may I offer you advice, as the leader of these people?”

“Of course, Lord Flint.”

“A day may come when strange men might stumble on your city,” he says quietly, turning them away from the festival. “They’ll have strange tools and pale faces. They may come here and offer a hand of friendship.”

The Chief nods. “And we should take it?’

“Kill them,” Flint says. “If they ever show up here, you kill them. Kill them all, before they ever get a chance to open their mouths.”

After a moment, the Chief says, “Yes, my Lord.”

“And I think that means it’s time for us to go,” Silver says quickly, grabbing Flint by the arm. “Since we’ve imparted all our Godly knowledge and all.”

The Chief gives them each a crippling hug. “I do hope you find a way to catch up with each other in the sky,” he says.

The celebrations continue around them. Kites and birds danced in the sky, raining down flowers and soft fruits. This time, Flint has stayed away from the wine, since he’s the only one capable of sailing the ship. Silver hurries ahead to make sure everything is stocked, but Flint keeps getting stopped on his path to hug and shake hands with everyone in the shadow of their new vessel.

It is a grand ship, one fit for Gods. Not as big at the _Walrus_ , but then it has to be sailed by two men alone. Etched into the wood are beautiful suns and moons, pattered around the hull, and lined itself with gold. The figure on the bow, Flint thinks, looks like one side might be Flint and the other side might be Silver. Either way, it’s hideous and terrifying and he loves it. A blue flag whips in the air, a vivid filled sky over a roaring sea. It sits on the water as if burdened by a full crew, but the weight is from all their treasure, filling every crevice and hold.

Flint is practically vibrating with excitement, and fear. Honestly, pretending to be Gods was truly the easy part. They’re about to set sail into an area rife with pirates, in a golden ship, with little to no navigational tools and no maps, since the people of El Dorado are not voyagers, and Flint hadn’t thought to carry a compass and a map when he was being mutinied against. He had no idea how they Hell they’re going to make it back home in one piece, but he’s often thought that, and he keeps making it out okay.

He finally makes it through the crowd to the dock, holding some golden reins. Silver looks down over the side, and when he sees Flint boarding with the horse, his whole face lights up. “Our good omen!”

Flint shrugs. “Sure.” He figures, if they get becalmed on their way back to Nassau and run out of food, they can always eat the horse instead.

It’s not long before they’re ready to sail, and they stand on the deck and wave as the wind catches in their sails. They roll up the anchor together, trying not obviously struggle with it.

And then they’re underway. Horns blare and drums bang as they cut across the water. Women and children weep as they go, the older kids running alongside the river until they can’t anymore. Soon enough, they’re back in the mountain, Flint steering them a different way than they came that’ll lead them out to sea. It’s now just the two of them, a bastard fucking horse, and enough gold to buy Europe.

Silver comes to stand by him at the wheel. “So. Back to Nassau, Lord Flint?”

Flint snorts. “If this is your way of getting me to call you Lord Silver, it’s not happening.”

“Ha!” Silver smiles, rubbing up against his side. “Still said it.”

Aiming for casual again, and failing again, Flint asks, “Did you….want me to drop you off somewhere else?”

Silver pauses, and then grimaces dramatically. “Perhaps a tailor. I can’t believe we’re sailing back home, into an infamous den of thieves, as the richest men in the New World and the Old, and I’ll be wearing a _skirt._ ”

“Should have found your old trousers, then,” Flint says, and then immediately contradicts himself by sliding his hand up Silver’s ass.

Silver kisses his neck, the same spot that had nearly gotten him killed yesterday. They had fixed his wounds, but he’s glad they’ll be returning to a place without such medicines. He wants Silver’s bruises. Silver kisses his neck, just as the sun breaks pierces the darkness of the mountain, hitting the gold of their ship, and everything fucking glimmers.

“So,” says Silver, sucking on Flint’s gold earring. “What the plan now?”

The day is clear and cloudless, in the real world as it had been in El Dorado. The wind is blowing that same steady current south. Except here, he can smell the salt of the ocean, feel it already start to curl at the ends of his hair. He can’t believe he’s gone so long without this.

“Man makes plans, Lord Silver,” Flint says, smirking at the hitch in Silver’s breath. “For us, the sky’s the limit.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [beautiful artwork by johix](http://johix.tumblr.com/post/163059654265/for-vowel-in-thugs-silverflint-el-dorado-au-fic)!! *_*


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